


I Met You in a Dream

by greenmamba5



Series: Sweet Dreams, Sweetheart [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Heals, Credence has no idea what to do with a boner guys, Multi, Obscurus (Harry Potter), Physical Abuse, Reader has Prophetic Dreams, Reader is a Charms Master, kissing and snuggles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9286808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenmamba5/pseuds/greenmamba5
Summary: Your hand traced down his arm, fingers resting on the back of his hand. He almost flinched away. After all, his palm was stinging from the latest lashing, but he held his ground, enjoying the feel of your fingertips–skin to skin, not something he was used to at all. Before he could think further, your thumb came to rest lightly on his palm and you slowly turned his hand over. Perplexed, he was frozen for a moment. Then, noticing that you were scrutinizing the marks on his palm, he yanked out of your grip.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some things about this particular wizard/witch Reader:  
> -You have prophetic dreams, but they usually involve very mundane things. The most spectacular dreams you’d had involved keeping yourself out of trouble or lead you to pursue fruitful endeavors. For example, you’ve had a dream before that warned you to turn left at a corridor to avoid becoming involved in a tussle with your classmates. You’ve also had a dream that directed you to New York and you subsequently found a promising job there.  
> -You work as a metal charmer. Your specialty is casting protective wards on objects, but you can do many other kinds of charms, as well.

Nightmares.

You were more than used to your prophetic dreams, but when it came to nightmares of the foretelling variety, you hesitated. These predictions always meant something sinister was looming ahead, a fight or a heartbreak or a death.

As of late you’d been dreaming in black, the lighthearted, peaceful feel of your dreams twisting into a vortex of red and a scratchy void of darkness. You heard screams, you smelled the metallic tang of blood, and you felt a suffocating vice grip around your body.

More nights than not, you woke up screaming.

————————

The papers, No-Maj and Wizard alike, reported destruction of buildings, deaths of No-Majs who appeared to have had the life literally sucked out of them.

Surviving eyewitnesses told of a large black creature that burst through the walls as though they were made of tissue paper.

You knew you were connected, that your nightmares were connected. You hardly slept, fearing what you would see next.

———————

Weeks into the destruction of the city, mass panic was forming, but your nights were only plagued half of the time. The other half brought something lighter, more timid. You still felt a fear but not something malicious. You concentrated on these dreams, seeking answers, seeking direction.

A crumpled form, flinching away from a hand, from a strip of well-worn leather, from the dull cold buckle that bit into the already lacerated flesh of palms. The frightened figure stood, hunching to only a fraction of its true height, head bowed in shame.

The smell of ink, of dust, of paper. The taste of stale bread. The cool night air weaving into moth-eaten socks and chilling toes, the absence of a blanket to stave off the cold, preventing sleep. A proud swelling of the chest, knowing that someone smaller and frailer was benefiting from the blanket.

Uncomfortable shoes, feet wearing a familiar trail in the cobblestone to the corner of the street. A newsstand on one edge of the street beside a flower shop. Flyers in hand. The stares of bystanders hot and judgemental and so, so embarrassing. A shove and half the papers hit the ground, ruined in a puddle. The hissed insult, “Freak.” Behind him–him, the dream is of a young man–is a cobbler shop. The shop-keep is glaring at him from the door. He tucks his head as a group of sharply dressed boys approaches him. One has a bucket in hand. The bucket slings forward. Water, icy cold. Soaked through his three layers down to the skin. He wipes his face, stumbling as the group laughs. His flyers have all fallen. He scrambles to gather them, scooping up a discarded No-Maj newspaper with them. The headline is something or other about the Black Creature. The date is–

—————-

You bolted upright, nearly nailing your forehead on the ceiling of your loft.

The date on the paper–today’s date was–the same, they were the same. In the dream, the sun had been at it’s full apex, though partially clouded. The cobbler’s…. You had seen that place before, recognized that corner. One of your suppliers had a shop hidden in an alleyway near there. You frantically bounced out of bed and grabbed the first articles of clothing your searching hands found. The sun shone dimly through your windows, hooded by clouds but still very much low in the sky. You dragged your coat from its hook and rushed out of the house, tugging your shoes over your heels and barely remembering to cast a lock on the way out. That place was across town and there were always too many people around to witness you if you apparated.

But, if you hurried, you would make it.

—————

You arrived in time, slowing to calm your breathing. You were sure that your hurried pace to this place had looked odd, but you were very much focused on your objective. As you neared the cobbler’s, you saw him, lanky but hunched in a way that betrayed his true height. His dark hair was cut poorly and his clothes were most certainly second-hand and very threadbare. He held a stack of papers in his hands. A stack that half spilled as a bystander rammed into him.

You jolted to action again, recognizing this part of your prophecy. That meant–

And, there they were, a group of hooligans, one carrying a bucket of water. They approached, intent on dousing their target. You rushed forward as they came within a body’s length of the dark-featured young man. The main character of your dream watched with wide eyed shock as you swept past him and straight to the group of boys. The one wielding the bucket started his swing, only to have his wrist shoved down by your determined, angry hand. The bucket hit the ground, sloshing the frigid water onto the boys’ shoes–and onto your shoes, too, for that matter. The offending boy shouted out a curse and gave you a shove.

“What’s the big idea?” the boy roared.

You smoothed your coat with a glare. “Don’t you boys have anything better to do?”

“Look, it ain’t any business of yours,” the boy snapped. “So, why don’t you just move along and we won’t have to mess up you up too, eh?”

“With that fine officer over there watching?” you threatened, gesturing over to a No-Maj police officer who was walking down the road. “Start something and you’ll be getting in a lot of trouble, yeah? Now, why don’t you boys move along before this gets nasty?”

The boys considered it for a moment before cursing simultaneously and flipping rude hand gestures at you. They turned and swaggered away. You relaxed, glad that they had given up on their original target. You looked back, eyeing said target with a kind smile.

“You alright?” you asked. “I saw them walking up and figured they were up to no good. Little too cold for a public bath, innit?”

———————

The next dream placed your on a different corner on a different day. This time, the dark boy was destined to get angry, truly angry. You had seen from the dreams that he was beaten at home. You had seen from watching him from afar that he was affiliated with those Second Salem crackpots. The combination of abuse and terrible background wore him ragged and your dreams had revealed something horrible.

A spell of some sort? A strong one.

The offenders are different this time, but the intent is the same. A curt insult, a thrown rock. It cracks his brow and hot red fills his vision. He feels it bubbling inside, clawing to get out, and suddenly… suddenly…

You barely had time to dress yourself when you awoke. The dream had occurred outside a factory when the workers had just begun to arrive. Early, too early. Your coat was forgone, simple boots jumped into instead of anything with laces. You whipped out your wand, thinking of a secluded place nearby. Though witnesses be damned–if you didn’t make it, people would be seriously hurt. You weren’t sure how, the dream hadn’t been very clear about it, but you had a sick feeling in your gut. You vanished in a twisted blur.

——————-

You spotted him on the sidewalk, flyers in hand as always. You silently thanked Merlin he was alone as you dashed toward him. You saw the thick overcoat of the rock-thrower a block or less away. In the dream, the rock had been a secondary thought. If the man didn’t see the dark boy, he wouldn’t attack. You grabbed the young man by the arm and dragged him into an alley before he could protest.

Your eyes met his and he was already angry, eyes nearly glossing over with white–you remembered that this was a look similar to his in the dream. You brought your hands to either side of his face and his eyes snapped back to warm, frightened brown.

“Don’t panic,” you said. “I just saved you from a lot of trouble.”

“What?” he said. Your previous encounter had ended very quickly. One of his sisters had walked up, prompting you to whisk away without even introducing yourself. He had spent a good week thinking about you, your kind eyes, your soft hair that was fixed neatly and framed your face. Your shoes had been ruined by the bucket of water intended for him, but you made no complaint about it at all, only asked if he was okay. And now, here you were again, pulling him from “trouble” that he didn’t even know about. You bit your lip.

“I know what you’ve been taught about this sort of thing, so please don’t be alarmed,” you began. “I can see things, things that haven’t happened yet. And what I saw from you was something… terrible. Horrible, people would have–”

“You’re a witch,” he said, less in shock but more matter-of-factually.

“I… yes, I can use magic,” you admitted. You eyed the flyers in his fist. “I know what the ones around you think of people like me, so don’t worry. I won’t let anyone see you with me.”

“That’s not…” He was unsure what to say. “Have you been watching me… ever since that time? Or longer?”

“That time?” you asked. “You mean last week?” He nodded shakily. “I wasn’t watching intentionally, but yes it’s been at least since then. Actually, a bit longer.” You clasped your hands, nervous. “I see things through my dreams. Lately, they’ve been centered around the strange events that have been happening. It was only last week that I had a dream about you specifically. It showed me where to find you. Those boys were going to throw water on you.” You pointed to the front of the alley. “There’s a man out there today who was going to throw a rock at your head. My dream… it showed me that you were going to hurt that man very badly. So, I came to stop it from happening.”

“You saw me… hurt someone?”

“Yes, with a type of magic. I’m not sure what exactly,” you said. “I think you’re connected to the thing that tearing up the city, too, but I’m not sure how.”

“Someone else…” the young man said, “…with… with magic… he told me something like that. That there’s a child… close to me. I’m supposed to find them.”

“And have you?” you asked.

The man thought on it. “No, not yet.”

“I see.”

“How was I going to do it?” he asked suddenly. You cocked an eyebrow at him in question. “You said I was going to hurt someone. How?”

“Oh, that,” you said, shrugging. “I’m not sure. Maybe a spell?”

“Like magic?” the man gasped.

“Yes.”

“I… don’t know any magic,” he said, his brows knitting together. “I’m not…”

‘A witch,’ he was going to say (you felt sure that he called all magical people “witches”), but you held up a hand to hush him. “There’s something special about you. I’m sure of it!”

His stomach fluttered at the statement. Special. Mr. Graves had said similar things, that he was unique, that he would be taught magic and taken away from the hell he was in… if only he could find the child. You made no such promises, but hearing the words of praise–God, how many times had he ever been praised?–warmed him.

“It was definitely magic of some kind,” you continued. “And without a wand… that means you must be pretty powerful.” You outstretched a hand and laid it on his shoulder. He shuddered, but you felt him lean just slightly into the touch. “You… You don’t believe what those Salemers do… do you?”

“I… have to find the child,” he said sadly.

Your hand traced down his arm, fingers resting on the back of his hand. He almost flinched away, after all, his palm was stinging from the latest lashing, but he held his ground, enjoying the feel of your fingertips–skin to skin, not something he was used to at all. Before he could think further, your thumb came to rest lightly on his palm and you slowly turned his hand over. Perplexed, he was frozen for a moment. Then, noticing that you were scrutinizing the marks on his palm, he yanked out of your grip.

You knew about the cuts, and he was reeling, trying to figure out how.  
He wondered: Was that something you had seen too? (You had) If so, had you seen everything? (Unfortunately, you had) Him, relinquishing his own belt and kneeling pitifully, awaiting the lash. Him, head bowed in shame, holding back tears with everything he had. (After seeing that you had awoken roughly, crying in his stead.)

Without another word, he turned away and moved back to the street. You didn’t chase him, didn’t move, only called to him, “I’m… sure we’ll meet again.”

When he turned back to your voice, you had already disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

He waited for days, wondering with each passing one if this day was the one when you’d make an appearance. He traveled further away from the church, giving the excuse that he was trying to extend their reach when, actually, he was trying to separate from the main group. You were less likely to appear if his mother or sisters were near, that much he concluded from your last meeting.

‘I won’t let anyone see you with me,’ You’d told him. The statement was double-edged. He felt both a desire to protect him and shame of being seen with him.

Always his own worst enemy, he was plagued by thoughts that you were repulsed by him. That, of all the people you could dream about, why did you have to have prophecies about ‘the freak.’ Before long, he had constructed a full dialogue in his head of things you might say or might think about him. 'What a pitiful child you are. Why don’t you just die and get out of my head? Disgusting. You disgust me. You should be locked up.’

When he met you again, it had been purely coincidental, in that he found you.

You were at a jewelry shop, browsing necklaces and rings–new shinies to place charms on. You picked up a dainty silver chain and were looking closely at it when he passed the storefront. He lingered just a moment too long at the window and you happened to look up and meet his gaze. To his great surprise, your eyes brightened and you gave him the kindest smile he’d ever seen. In a flash, you had put the chain down and exited the store. You scanned the area–looking for other Salemers–then walked right up to him.

“Well, this is a surprise!” you chimed. “Been keeping to yourself? I haven’t had any dreams lately.”

“I’ve… not been in trouble lately.” He unconsciously stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. You didn’t mention it.

“Oh!” you gasped suddenly. “It just occured to me–I haven’t given you my name this whole time.” You extened your hand to him. “It’s–.”

He heard it, definitely, but didn’t react. He studied your hand for a moment, trying to decipher if a handshake was just a sly way to see his scars–or scout out any new cuts–on his hands. You didn’t drop your hand, however, and the silence grew awkward after about 30 seconds. He slowly dragged a hand from his pocket and clasped yours, his grip limp. Your other hand came up and clasped his, cradling his palm in your warm embrace. You could feel the raised lines in his skin. His knees felt weak.

“And your name is…?” you insisted.

“Cre… it’s Credence.”

———————————

That meeting had ended too soon. You were out on business and excused yourself. You were sad to go, and, though you thought it was easy to read, Credence looked very unsure. You did inform him that you did business with that particular jewelry shop on a recurring schedule–every-other Thrusday when they turned out new items, you’d said. You hoped he got the hint at an invitation to meet you again.

—————————————-

He resisted the maybe-invitation when the biweekly anniversary came. His mother had, in fact, given him a different route that day, and he was to look for more children to recruit. But, pending that, he wasn’t sure if he should meet with you again.

Midway into the day, however, he felt much differently. A wrong turn down the wrong street had brought him face-to-face with the wrong people, as it often did. The encounter began with taunting, intimidation, and someone much more muscular than him pinning him in an alley. It ended with him on the ground, nursing a black eye, many, many scrapes, and a more-than-likely broken rib from a vicious kick he’d received.

He struggled to sit once his assailants had left, spitting blood from a busted lip. He scooted into a brick wall, holding his swollen eye in his palm. He knew that with an injury like this he’d be slow-paced to get home, and the sun was already setting. However, the morbid silver-lining to this was that his mother never punished him for tardiness if he was injured by someone outside–it was probably one of the only times she showed mercy. But, haunting him more than that was–

“Why didn’t you come?”

His voice seemed foreign to him, cracking and wet. He wiped his face, expecting blood, but found tears on his sleeve instead. You hadn’t come for him this time, even though his injuries were severe. His mind reeled as to why, and then a thought came to him and a sick feeling hit his stomach like lead.

'You were going to hurt that man very badly. So, I came to stop it from happening.’

You came to keep him from hurting someone. If he used a spell, your kind would be exposed. So, there it was, your true interest, he thought. You hadn’t seen him injuring anyone, so it wasn’t important to help him. There was always a catch.

His tears spilled furiously and he felt as though something was twisting his heart.

“Why… why… why?”

“–ence!”

His head perked and he kicked himself for being so suddenly hopeful. He hadn’t heard, couldn’t have possibly heard–

“Credence! Where are you?”

Frantic, distant, but it was definitely your voice.

“Credence!”

He was conflicted. Should he feel betrayal that you hadn’t come, that you’d come late? Was late better than never? He found his voice, and raspy and painful as it was–definitely a broken rib, yes–he shouted your name a couple of times.

You nearly ran past the alley, but skidded to a halt. You were very disheveled–your hair messy and wild, your long coat very obviously worn over nightclothes. You stumbled into the alley, panting and crying, and fell to your knees in front of him. Your hands hovered over his face, not touching–for fear of hurting. He looked perplexed by your hesitance.

“Oh… oh, Credence,” you cried. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” You pulled a wooden rod from your coat. It was knobbed and had a leather handle that fit your palm perfectly–your wand. You held it in front of him, murmuring a chant until the wand tipped glowed blue. Your voice was almost a song, though your words hiccuped with your tears. Credence felt a a strange knitting feeling in his side that radiated out and all his wounds began to tingle. Healing, he recalled from an encounter with Mr. Graves, this was healing.

Once your job was sufficiently finished–he had no idea how you even knew your work was finished–you pocketed your wand and cupped his face in your hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated pitifully. “I saw you, I saw it all, but the alley… I only saw the alley. I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“You… didn’t know where?” he asked, realization dawning on him.

“The dreams,” you clarified, “I have to see a place I’m familiar with or a clue. I didn’t have any clues except…” You pointed to a shelf at the end of the alley. There were empty bottles lining the shelf. “Milk… there’s a restaurant. This building, they put out their used milk bottles for pick up.”

“You found me,” he said.

“Not fast enough,” you argued. “I’m so… do you hurt anywhere else? I thought I healed it all, but–”

He reasoned that he probably shouldn’t have, he figured you’d shove him away in repulsion, but he slumped forward, resting his forehead against your neck. His hands came up to rest on your sides in a very tentative, hesitant hug. You didn’t push him away. Instead, your arms encircled his shoulders tightly, drawing him closer. You cried against his ear, nuzzling his hair. He allowed his arms to snake around your back loosely. He was trembling at the contact.

Warm, so warm, the feeling filled him. He tilted his head and pressed his nose against your jaw, wishing he could just melt into your embrace. He didn’t want it to end.

Eventually, though, it did. He pried himself away. He assured you that he was fine and could find his way back. Assured you that everything was okay. Thanked you for coming, for healing him. Told you to be safe flying back home, or however it was you traveled.

And he returned.

Without injury.

Without excuse.

Lashes to his hands did not suffice. Instead, his shirt came off and his back was split open.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t care. He slept on his stomach, back exposed to the cold air.

He weighed the pain against your embrace.

The embrace was more than worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

You sought him out the next day. He had gone to the printers to pick up paper for flyers. He was alone–carrying the bundles of paper on his own was his extended punishment for being out late. He wasn’t sure how you found him, exactly, and was suddenly very worried that some bad luck was coming his way. You ducked behind the shop, gesturing for him to follow so no one would see you.

He veered to the back, caught off guard by the awaiting look of determination on your face. Your wand was out again and you insisted, “Well, turn around.”

“Turn around?” he echoed.

“I know what happened,” you said plainly, walking a circle around him. “I saw… I saw it, I know what she did. Hold still and I’ll–”

He faced you. “You don’t have to.”

“I do!” you cried. “It’s my fault that–”

“You didn’t do anything!” The stunned look on your face told him that his tone had been too forceful. He couldn’t remember the last time he raised his voice to anyone. He shied away timidly, as though you might very well slap him for the outburst. “You… helped me. This”–He pointed at his back–“is nothing. What you fixed was much worse.”

“But I can fix this too,” you pleaded. He shook his head. You sighed. “Fine…” You scuffed the ground with your toe. “Any leads on the child?”

“The… no. None yet.” He wondered, with a little suspicion, why you were asking.

“Well, I’ve been watching my dreams, too,” you said. “I haven’t seen any more of the black beast. I…” You appeared to be struggling with words. “When you find the child, someone was going to take you from that place, right? Put you in protective custody?”

“They… he said he would teach me magic,” Credence said. “Said he’d bring me into your world.”

You smiled. “That’s good.” You placed a hand on his arm and he fought the urge to lean into it. He noticed that he was a full head taller than you and wondered, his stomach clenching at the sheer nerve of the thought, what it would feel like to hold you against his chest. “I was just going to say… if you need anything when you come to the other side… I could, I mean I know people who could… Sorry, I’m babbling.”

“It’s okay,” he said, feeling hopeful. Of what, he didn’t know.

“Well, just know if you need help, I know people,” you said finally. “And I have money, too, if you need that. Wizards use a different currency.” He hadn’t even considered that, though he felt sure that Mr. Graves would help him get started with his new life when the time came. “And, well, I guess I’ll be one of the first to know if anything changes, but just in case…”

You fumbled in your coat pocket and procured a small book. You held it out to him and he took it gingerly. There was nothing written on the cover. He flipped the book open and saw blank pages. He gave you a questioning look.

“I placed a charm on it,” you said. “The majority of the pages are normal, but the last page holds the charm. If you write something on the last page, it will… well, maybe it’s easier to just show you.”

You searched again in your pocket for a pen. You briefly took the book back from him and found the last page. You wrote a quick message–‘Hello.’ You rolled your left sleeve up and Credence watched in awe as the word appeared on the inside of your wrist.

“It gives a slight tingling feeling so I’ll know it’s there,” you said. As quickly as the word appeared, it faded, as did its counterpart on the page. You felt a swell of pride–it had taken nearly all night to perfect the charmwork on that book. Fueled by the rage of seeing Credence beaten, you’d been determined to finish your work immediately. “The ink disappears so no one will know what you’ve written. I also have the book’s partner so I can write back to you–oh, don’t worry, though, the marks won’t appear on you. I’ll only write back if you start the conversation.” To his stunned expression, you said, “Sorry. It’s a lot to take in. You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

He took the book back, holding it as though it were made of gold. He had never received a gift, at least not one of this magnitude. “Thank you.”

You smiled. “You’re welcome. If you need anything or if anything changes or if you want to talk… well, there it is. I work from my home, so I’m always free to talk… if you want.”

“Can I…” The words had come out on your own and he dared not finish the sentence. You were having none of it though, and your brows raised in question. You waited. He held his hand out, a silent request for your pen. You grinned and handed it over. He scribbled a quick message and you glanced down to your arm.

-Can I hug you?-

Like a feather, soft and light–that’s how you felt against his chest.

—————————–

-Stay clear of the bank tomorrow, the big one. Ma is rallying-

You chewed the body of your quill and returned, -Will you be there?-

-Yes-

-Please be careful.-

————

-I had a question-

-What is it, sweetheart?-

The endearment had been a risky choice of wording. You waited, receiving no response and worried that you had gone too far.

On the other side of the page, Credence had slammed the book closed, barely believing the word that had appeared in front of him. It was gone when he opened it, of course. His throat was suddenly dry and he felt a tightness in his gut unlike he’d ever felt before. Was this… was this what liking someone felt like?

He readied his pen, intending to ask about the wording, then thought against it.  
-What is that thing you do, flying? When you disappear-

You gave a sigh of relief, but noticed that he didn’t mention the word. Was he embarassed? Did you want him to be? -It’s called Apparating. It’s a spell to help us move quickly. We all learn it when we turn seventeen.-

-Will I learn it?-

You hesitated, feeling an intense urge to cry. There were many things he’d have to learn before he could attempt Apparation, years of studying spells, hours upon hours of perfecting lesser spells. He’d already had so much time stolen from him–it wouldn’t be easy to get him up to speed. But, that wasn’t what he needed to hear.

-Of course you will.-

———————-

You felt the familiar tingle on your wrist. Looking down, you saw only your name.  
You pulled the counterpart book from you pocket. -Yes?-

-Do you think I’m a freak?-

You were taken aback by that. -You know I don’t.-

He read the words carefully, repeating them over in his head after they disappeared from the page. He knew? Did he really? He liked to think he had become close enough to you to at least know what you thought about him. He had asked Mr. Graves the same question that day. Mr. Graves had asked about the child, praised him, given him a necklace, hugged him… Though, somehow it had felt emptier than talking to you, receiving praise from you. And you didn’t ever protest when he pressed closer into the hugs. He supposed that you knew what he wanted–the absolute most physical contact as possible. You would even hold him tighter, drawing more of him in, if he leaned toward your even a bit. Mr. Graves was only just tolerant of the touching, though, and Credence had to assume that that was normal for a grown man of his societal stature–important people didn’t have time to sit in alleyways hugging pathetic children.

-Mr. Graves gave me a necklace. He said if I touch it and say his name, he’ll come to me.-

-A charmed necklace.- You said. Then, -I thought of making you one, but I thought your mother would be angry if she found it.- There was an extended pause and you wrote, -If you really want one from me, I’m more than happy to make it, Credence.-

He finally said. -The book is better.-

——————————

You were pulled from a task–simple protection ward on a ring–by the soft vibration on your wrist. Again, it was only your name. Your book was across the room and it took you only a moment to retrieve it.

-Yes, sweetheart?-

You had taken to calling him that in your introductory message and it always made his stomach flip. -Are you busy tomorrow?-

-Not really, why?-

He gulped, gathering courage and shakily wrote, -Ma is taking the girls out of town. Can we meet?-

You reread the message several times, astounded that he had asked. You grinned wide and hastily wrote back, -Of course. If you’d like, I can Apparate us to my apartment. I’ve got some charm work to do. You can watch if you’d like!-  
-if you bu- A frantic scribble appeared over the letters followed by, -are busy I can stay home-

You almost laughed at the correction and hasty words. Your poor, shy boy practically turned into a puddle if you just hugged him and here you had gone and invited him to your home. You could vividly imagine him fumbling with his pen. His face was probably a hundred shades of red.

-I’d like to see you. If we meet here, no one will see you. I don’t want you to get caught.- You hoped the clarification was enough to calm him.

-I’ll write you when they leave goodnight-

You snickered. Oh, he was embarrassed, all right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW (proximity sparks a response that won’t be acted upon in this part)

Apparating was terrible, Credence decided. He landed in your apartment, off balance, and nearly vomited on your floor. You laughed uneasily and cast a spell over his back, dispelling the sickness.

“Sorry, first time’s a little rough,” you said. “But, hey, you landed square on your feet. That’s better than most.”

He swallowed hard and focused on his surroundings. Your apartment was small, cozy. The windows where covered completely and warm lanterns lit the entire space. The nook of your kitchen was visible from the threshold, as was the ladder that led up to the loft where your bed was.

“It’s a pretty tight fit in here,” you admitted, “but it’s all I need.” You guided him to a worn cloth couch and gestured for him to sit with you. The table in front of the couch was littered with jewelry and gemstones, some small tools, and a book that was opened to a page with ornate designs. “This is my work,” you said. “Charming. I was working on a set of rings with protective wards. They keep the wearer safe from some dangerous spells.”

“That’s… neat,” Credence said with a hint of lackluster.

You puffed out a laugh. “Don’t sound so excited, there, sweetheart.” He tensed–that was the first time he’d heard you call him that. “You don’t seem like the type who’d excel in Charms, anyway.” You clarified, “Charms is one of the core classes when you learn magic. It was my best subject. No, you seem more like… maybe a Potions type.”

“You really think I’ll be able to learn magic?” he asked softly as you flicked your wand at a ring with a whispered ‘Protego’, surrounding it with light.

“I don’t see why not,” you replied. “I’ve not seen you use magic firsthand, but my dreams aren’t wrong. You were able to use some sort of powerful magic in my dream.”

“What if… I can’t control it? What if it just… happens?”

“A lot of witches and wizards start that way,” you said with a shrug. You flipped the page of your book, searching for a specific incantation. “One of my little brothers sneezed and blew a door off its hinges. And, I made all the fine china in the house float out the window.” Mildly embarrassed, you muttered, “Never got those back.”

Credence laughed at that and you almost dropped the ring. It occurred to you that you’d never heard him laugh. He kept his head low, enough so that you almost couldn’t see the curve of his lips. His laugh was quiet, as though he didn’t want to intrude, but it had a beautiful sound to it.

You grinned in return, finishing the charm on the ring and moving to the next in the set. “By the way,” you said, “I made cookies. I’m not a great cook but they turned out alright.” You gestured to the kitchenette. “Feel free.”

“I’m…. I’m fine,” he said nervously.

You eyed him suspiciously. “I didn’t put anything weird in them.”

“No, I wasn’t t-thinking that.”

You let the offer linger in the air a moment then sighed in defeat. “Fine, fine. But, they’re there if you want them.”

It had been hard-ingrained in him to not take food from anyone. The intelligent part of him knew that food was another tool his mother could use to make her children behave–act out of turn and you’d go to bed hungry–but it was a hard habit to break. That, and he didn’t want to be an inconvenience. But, the truth was that he hadn’t actually eaten that day. The mention of food set his stomach into an upset gurgle. One that you definitely noticed.

“Are you… Credence, have you eaten today?” It was already midday. You dipped your head to look him in the eye. He gulped but didn’t respond. “You don’t have to hold back on my account. If you’re hungry, please eat something!” Abandoning your charmwork, you shuffled into the kitchen. “I don’t eat at home very often, but I do have a few things.”

“It’s okay, r-really,” he stammered.

“Either you let me make you something,” you bargained, “or I’ll find a way to smuggle you into a wizard diner for a proper meal–and believe me, magical food can be a little strange, so…” You plucked a loaf of bread from your pantry and turned back to him.

He stared at you from the couch. The idea of being taken out, especially to a magical area of town, was nerve-wracking. He finally managed to say. "O-okay. Here, I’ll eat here. Anything is fine.“

“Excellent!” you sang back. “Egg sandwich it is!”

——————-

He ate in silence as you continued your wandwork on the ring set. Your client had specific charms in mind and you tried to tailor a specific incantation for each ring. Some were short and easy, others tied multiple charms together. Your words flowed like a song. You stole a glance at Credence and saw him staring intently at your wand-hand.

You smiled and tentatively placed your free hand on his back–to that he visibly flinched, less from shock than actual pain. “Crede-”

“I was out with Mr. Graves yesterday… later than I should have been,” he said sheepishly.

“Is that also why you were left at the church today?” He nodded shakily. You placed your wand on the table and stood up. You gave him a once over, noticing now that his eyes looked tired, heavy, and darker than usual. Had he even slept the night before? Cuts on his back aside, he was exhausted. You pointed up to your loft. “Go get some rest.”

“I… what?”

“I’ll wake you once I finish charming these, ” you promised. “It won’t take long.” You took him by the arm and pressed him towards the ladder. “But first, would you like me to heal your back? It must be painful.”

“N-no, it’s fine. I-I’m fine,” he pleaded. He looked over his shoulder, seeing the overly worried look on your face. “I’m used to it…” He assumed he had a mural of scars. He’d never exactly looked at his back. Mirrors were not something found in his house.

“You don’t have to brave through it on your own,” you whispered. “Please, let me help you.”

“It’s just another scar or two… I’ll just go sleep for a bit.” He quickly and quietly made his way up the ladder. He didn’t really need healing. What he needed was… he didn’t even know what he needed, what he wanted. Some part of him–some really twisted part–had wanted to remove the shirt, have you look him over. Maybe even–he could barely think of it without his mind screaming at him–touch him. He remembered Mr. Graves’ thumb brushing over his palm, the shivering sensation that had run up his arm. What would the same magic on a larger area feel like? His face felt hot as he crawled into your bed and laid out on his stomach.

He heard the creak of the ladder and suddenly you were up and sitting beside him. He rolled up onto his elbow to face your. “W-what-”

“You ran off too fast,” you muttered. “I can heal scars, too, if you’re interested. But, it’s a little harder for me than repairing cuts, so I do have to see them.”

“Oh,” he said. He considered it. The scars on his back really didn’t mean much to him, they were out of sight out of mind. But, that deep, twisty part of him wondered if he would be less repulsive to you if the scars were gone. And, again, he imagined what your hands would feel like on his back. His words betrayed him, “Will you have to touch them?”

“I don’t…” you considered your words carefully. He had revealed, on more than one occasion now, just how starved for physical affection he was. You noticed every time you hugged, the way he would shiver and lean in, seeking just a bit more, just a moment longer. Your magic was stronger coming through a wand, but hands on and wandless wasn’t a far stretch–just more time consuming. For his sake, you lied, “It works best that way, I think. If you’re okay with that.”

He blushed, actually beet-red, and looked away from you.

“…ay.”

“What?” He had basically mouthed the word.

“I… said okay….”

“O-oh, okay,” you quipped. You gestured at him, at his clothing. “Well, off with it, and lay back down. I’ll have it done in no time.”

Removing clothing had never been harder. He fumbled and got caught–on all three layers, separately. He couldn’t look at your when his pale skin was finally exposed, he just buried his face in your pillow, heart beating wildly. You at least didn’t gasp, so he assumed his back didn’t look as bad as he imagined.

It actually did, worse even than you had thought. But, you weren’t going to make him more self-conscious about it. You wanted to cry, studying the cross-hatching on his back. Thicker and angrier over his shoulders, he had some that were forming scabs. Lower down, there were lighter, raised lines, some even slicing above his hips and dipping around to his front. Sweet Merlin, that must have hurt.

You healed the open wounds first, holding your hand just over his skin so as not to touch fresh cuts and risk hurting him. Once the red had disappeared and only the old, white lines remained, you cautiously placed your palms on his shoulders and smoothed them from the center out. Slow work, but you traced the lines, erasing them as you went.

“Okay?”

Credence held back the pleased sound that was bubbling in his throat. “Feels strange, but… yes, ’m fine.” Your hands were soft, so soft, and the tingling from your palms felt incredible. He broke the moment by saying, “I didn’t think, but if they’re suddenly gone and Ma sees…”

“I’ll cast a spell,” you assured. “A type of cloak. It will appear as though you still have scars but there won’t actually be anything there.”

“You think of everything,” he hummed as you inched lower on his spine. He hadn’t realized before just how much his muscles ached. They were tense and cramped, likely because his posture was awful. You felt knots and pressed into them. He hissed, but didn’t protest, so you continued, kneading with a little more pressure until he relaxed.

He was having a very had time suppressing the hum that was building. The tingling feeling was radiating out to his arms and wrapping into his chest. He snuggled into your pillow, almost drooling at the feeling. This was euphoria, he decided. Your hand dipped down to his hip, working on the marks there. He remembered a particularly bad beating in which the belt clipped his side and snapped around to his front, leaving a deep cut. That place had bled and bruised and hurt more than anything he’d experienced–he’d even urinated red for a while. It had even scared his mother enough that she never hit that area after that for fear of injuring him that badly again–not that she knew about the urine, but the rest was bad enough.

When you came to that hip, you didn’t hesitate in healing it, not that he’d expected your too, but the sensation was quite different from the rest. Your fingertips brushed forward, following the ridge of the scar, and the most peculiar feeling pulled at his stomach. He twitched and shivered and… moaned.

You jerked your hands back as his shot up to cover his mouth. He had not meant to make a lewd sound, had tried his best to hold back, but that one just came out. He couldn’t look at you and you weren’t moving at all. His heart beat wildly and he bit his lip. But, worst of all, he felt a tightening in his… Good God, he shouldn’t have liked it that much. He bit his hand, trying to override the fuzzy feeling in his head and force himself limp again before you noticed.

“Credence, I’m–”

“No, I’m sorry,” he barely managed to say. “I’m so, so sorry. Please don’t be upset.”

“No, no, sweetheart, I should have know better,” you insisted. “I could already feel you coming apart at the seams, I shouldn’t have pushed it–”

“It’s not you. I’m disgusting,” he whined, not really listening. He was still half-erect and he was beginning to doubt he could change that. He hadn’t really had to deal with this before… at all. It’s not that he didn’t know about things like this, but… the few times it had happened, it had been early morning… and the only time he’d ever tried to explore it, he’d been caught in the act and lashed for his sin. “You’re just trying to help and I’m… I’m… so, so sorry. I’m disgusting.” He choked back a sob. “Just… I’ll j-just go home, and…”

“What?” you gasped. “No! I’m not upset. I don’t want you to leave.” Your hand pressed into his back again and the tenderness of your touch unraveled him. He glanced up at you, his eyes red and wet and terrified. His fear broke your heart. You slowly stretched out beside him until you were layig side-by-side. You propped on one elbow and brushed the hair back from his temple. “You aren’t disgusting.”

He had no words. Your nails raked gently through his hair, fingers caressing the edge of his ear. He felt like he was coming undone and being put back together, over and over. He twisted enough that his arm could come free–but not enough that his hips would move–and took you by the wrist. “P-please… I don’t know… what… but, please…”

You nodded and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close. He nuzzled into your neck, still keeping his hips planted firmly where they were. The feel of your hands on his head and the warm smell of your hair was pleasing enough that he could ignore the annoyance between his legs. You traced soft lines down his back and he sighed audibly.

“Did… it really feel that good?” you mused quietly. Your tone was light-hearted.

“Y-yes,” he said, the shame tangible in his voice. He nosed your jaw, lips brushing your neck.

“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” you said.

“It was vulgar,” he said forcefully. "And you are so kind and beautiful"–to that, you felt a tingle go down your spine–“and I have no right–”

“Credence,” you said, pushing back to make eye contact. “Hush.” He worried his lip between his teeth but didn’t resist when you gathered him into an embrace again.

The silence was comforting, understanding. He felt laid open, raw and exposed, but there was such an ease to it. He slowly relaxed, uncurling and rolling to face your properly. You closed the space immediately, pressing fully against him. You could clearly feel the source of his distress but made no mention of it, fearing he would break if you did. You also made your lack of repulsion clear by kissing his forehead lightly.

He was more than pleased to stay like this, snuggled and secure. After a few moments of quiet, your breath was slowing, evening, and your fingers were roving lazily in his hair. He was hypnotized by it, squeezing you tightly, fingers clenching and unclenching against your shoulder blades. His entire body felt simultaneously blissfully numb and achingly stiff. Something–a want–tugged at him, but he couldn’t properly place it in his mind until the words were already spilling from his mouth.

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

“W-what?” you sputtered, astounded by the question.

He quickly retracted the question, shocked at himself for even asking. “Forget I said it–”

“No, no, it’s fine!” you assured. “But won’t your mother be back by sundown? I don’t want you to get in trouble again.” The hair on the back of your neck was prickling. You just fixed his back–the last thing you wanted was for him to be hurt again because of you.

“I… don’t mind.”

He couldn’t look you in the eye any longer. You felt sick at the choice he was willing to make, exchanging literal flesh for a few more hours. You felt tears welling up and you thought you might crush him with the force of your embrace.

“Sweetheart, you can stay as long as you like,” you whispered. “If it weren’t for the kid, the one you have to find… If there was any other way–” You placed a wet kiss on his neck and he trembled in your arms. “When you’re finished with that place, I want you here, with me.”

His reply was incoherent and hiccuped and you could tell he was crying. Your hands smoothed his back again, calming him. You had gained a new determination. His mother wasn’t going to lay a hand on him when you returned him, you decided. You’ d simply Obliviate her and call it a day. For now, Credence was here and happy with his choice. And, for as long as he was willing to stay, you weren’t going to waste your precious time together.


	5. Chapter 5

You dreamed in black. When dreaming of the future, you typically spectated the event from afar, watching as though suspended above the scene. Bits of information would present themselves to you, like pieces of a puzzle coming together to form a bigger picture. But, in this dream–nightmare?–it felt as though you were in the center of the action. A dark magic erupted from your dream-counterpart’s core, surging outward at an unknown target. You felt a sharp chill grip your core before it burst out in a second wave. It felt as though your body was being pulled taut in opposite directions, like any addition force would split you in half. Searing pain, a chorus of screams, chaos erupting–

Your named being called out. Again and again. The black magic faded from the edges of your vision, and you could hear a voice continually calling out to you, concern evident in the tone. Again, your name, and a plea to wake up. Please, please–

“Wake up!”

You flew awake, gasping for breath–had you been holding it? A warm weight was pressed into your stomach and you almost shoved it away, freezing when you remembered where you were–and more importantly who was with you.

Fingers gripped your waist and you rolled your eyes to the side. Credence had propped himself up slightly, hovering over you. His brows knitted in worry and he asked, “Are you okay?”

Your breaths were still short and ragged and you tried to calm yourself. “Y-yeah. ”

“You were restless,” he said. “And you were… glowing.” He pointed at his eyes to clarify.

“Oh, that,” you hummed. “My, um, eyes… and probably my eyelashes, too–they change when I’m in the middle of a vision.”

“Was it bad?” His hand came up to your face, but he hesitated to touch you. “You’re crying.”

Your fingers snapped up to probe under your eyes, feeling the wetness of tears. He hadn’t dropped his hand and you pressed your cheek against his palm. “It was… scary,” you said. “I feel like something very bad is going to happen, but I couldn’t make out any specific details.” Your eyes met his. “Credence, I think it’s the child again. I haven’t had a vision like that in weeks, but the vision was similar to the ones before.”

“You didn’t see… anything?” he asked. You shook your head. “Mr. Graves doesn’t have any details about the child, either. Why can’t anyone see them?”

“I don’t know about his source,” you said. “He may have a Seer working for him, or maybe he has visions, too. Every Seer experiences prophecies differently. Mine are usually pretty detailed, but I’ll only see things in flashes. I’ve learned how to pick out the important clues.” Calmer now, you settled back into your pillow. Credence rested beside you, face-to-face, less than a hand’s width between you. “These visions… I can’t ever see any details. It’s like I’m blindfolded. I can hear things, but nothing has ever stood out to me. It’s mostly just… screaming. And it’s very hard to breath. It’s like… honestly, it’s like I’m wrapped up in something.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” you replied. “I’ve never experienced anything like it.” You sighed. “Maybe tonight I’ll see something useful.”

“It’s still dark out,” he said. “Maybe you’ll see more if you try to sleep again.”

You shook your head. “I won’t be able to get back to sleep. I never can after a vision.” You sat up, stretching your arms above your head. Your shoulders made an audible crack. “I’m going to make coffee and start on my next order. It’s a bracelet with a charm like the one on your necklace. Want to watch? Or are you still tired?”

He sat up with you. “I’ll watch…. ’m awake.”

You regarded him with a skeptical look as he yawned. “Right, you definitely don’t sound sleepy.” He smiled and you ruffled his dark hair. “Fine, fine. I can put something in your coffee to help you wake up if you want.”

You rolled out of bed, crawling to the ladder, Credence close behind you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Some additional relevant backstory: Reader’s mother works as a healer at Ilvermorny

Strictly speaking, you weren’t supposed to have any contact with No-Majs. But, there was the ever-present problem of returning Credence home to a furious mother and two sisters–you hadn’t really accounted for them, but Credence assured you that they would snitch on him. So, rules be damned, a trio of Obliviates was in order.

The plan was simple and went smoothly. You entered the church first, encountered Mary Lou and acted interested in her movement, asked for a flyer or some such nonsense. She suspected nothing, led you into a common area where the girls were, and, well, that was that.

While they were still dazed, regaining their bearings, you escorted Credence in.

“Just pretend you were here all night,” you said. “They won’t know the difference.”

“Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”

“Of course.” You smiled. You had a precious few moments before the spell ran its course and the three came to their senses, a few seconds before someone entered the room. You contemplated something and decided to take a risk. “Oh, Credence?”

“Yes?”

You took a step closer, closing the space between the two of you, leaned up, and planted a quick kiss to his cheek. Wand out, you grinned at the dumbfounded look on his face. “Stay safe, sweetheart.”

You apparated in a blink, leaving him in stunned silence.

——————-

Credence felt blood rush to his face all at once and he felt overwhelmingly warm. His fingertips traced the groove of his cheekbone where your lips had touched. He still didn’t know what to think of you and the gentle way you treated him. What was he supposed to make of it? Very few people had every taken an interest in him and even fewer had retained that interest.

Years of living with Modesty had forged a sort of bond between them but it was flimsy at best. He felt sure she would run away one day, in search of something better, and the fragile connection with her would be lost. Months ago, there had been a lady, a witch who apparently worked with Mr. Graves, that had stood up to his mother. He had only seen her once before she disappeared from his life completely. There was Mr. Graves, who had taken a deeper interest than any before. He promised so many things, had been firm but kind, and had recruited Credence for a very important task. However, Credence couldn’t be sure where the relationship with Mr. Graves would go once the business between them was finished.

Then, there was you. You shocked him constantly, brought a brilliant light to his otherwise miserable life, and, only recently, made him hope for… something. You spoke of a future in which he escaped his mother, a future where the two of you were together–he could barely comprehend what “together” might even mean.

You were obviously skilled with magic, and, though Mr. Graves had promised to teach him, the thought of learning from you was much more appealing. Mr. Graves had a very rough way of going about things and Credence didn’t honestly know if he could handle the inevitable disappointment if–when–he failed. You were much more accommodating, however, and he felt sure that you would have more patience.

Logically, he assumed that “together” for the two of you meant that you would mentor him. But, his gut reaction was that mentors didn’t kiss their potential apprentices. Or was it a witch thing?

“Credence?” He was brought back to reality by his mother’s voice. “Oh, what are you doing? Fix your tie, we have somewhere to be today.” She came forward and adjusted the tie herself. It took everything he had to not flinch away from her. “We have the chance to speak with some very important people today.” She gave him a disapproving look, though it didn’t seem to have the bite it normally had–maybe he was just imagining it? “So, do try to be on your best behavior.”

——————

One thing you didn’t mention was that you had placed some subliminal thoughts in Mary Lou’s mind in addition to wiping her memory of the previous twelve hours. Something along the lines of “you will leave Credence the hell alone” seemed appropriate. Spells of suggestion weren’t a strong suit of yours, and you knew it would probably only curb her actions for a few days, but you hoped to buy Credence a brief reprieve.

As morning turned to afternoon, your wrist buzzed with a message. It wasn’t often that Credence was able to speak with you so early in the day, and you were worried as you pushed up your sleeve to check. The words -Am I a freak?- glared back at you.

Confused, you retrieved your book from your pocket and penned back, -Of course not. I’ve already told you that. What’s got you worried about it again?-

-You’re the only person who doesn’t call me that-

-I’m sure Mr. Graves hasn’t ever called you that.-

-No-

You waited for further messages. When they didn’t appear on your page, you wrote, -Just wait til you meet some other witches and wizards. No one will think you’re strange at all.-

Your words did comfort him somewhat, but the meeting with the Shaw family had been a disastrous blow to the minuscule amount of confidence he had built in the last day he’d spent with you. Humiliation burned in his throat and he couldn’t hold back the tears that were building. A few tears dripped onto his book and he silently hoped that they wouldn’t somehow translate through the page.

-Do you want to talk about it? Are you okay?-

He scrubbed his sleeve across his nose. -No, I’ll be okay.-

———————-

It wasn’t okay.

News of the supernatural murder of Shaw Jr. spread like wildfire through all the magical channels. A widespread panic formed overnight and by morning all contact between Wizards and No-Majs was put on a very tight lockdown.

You spent the morning shut up in your apartment, laying in bed, reeling over the event and replaying your nightmare in your mind. Black, scratchy, blind. Able to hear screams. A suffocating feeling.

You tugged at your hair, curling up on yourself. Your nightmare had to be connected. The blackness had something to do with the child’s magic and you had foreseen Shaw Jr.’s death–you just didn’t know it at the time, hadn’t been able to see it clearly. You kept picking apart the few details of the nightmare. Was there a sound, a taste, a voice? Had the dream felt cold? Had you seen anything at all of was it truly just the blanket of darkness?

Your thoughts were interrupted by a scratching feeling on your wrist–Credence’s writing was much more frantic than usual and it translated subtly on your skin. You read his message and your heart leaped into your throat.

-The police think we murdered the senator.-

You grabbed your wand up. “Accio, book! Accio, quill!”

You caught both items midair as they flew up to your loft. Quill in hand, you found your page and scribbled, -We who? Why do they think that?-

-Someone at the church. We were the last people he saw yesterday.- Before you could manage a response, he had written more, -Mr. Graves says it’s the child. He’s not happy says the child is going to die if I don’t find them what do I do?-

-Calm down,- you replied, noticing how his words were running together. His message from the previous day suddenly made sense. A meeting with Shaw Jr.? You weren’t sure how that had happened, but no doubt he had insulted Credence and his family. Meaning it likely had been someone from the church that had attacked him. Meaning… -Credence, who was with you yesterday?-

-Ma Chastity and Modesty-

-Has there ever been any sign that any of them could have magic?- Your brain was whirling.

-never-

That didn’t help. You gripped your quill tightly. In your years at school, you hadn’t encountered a magic that presented like what you saw in your dreams: black, cold, thick and blinding. Sure, there were spells that acted as a counterspell to Lumos, spells that simply made things dark, but those weren’t harmful. Your mind was feeling overexerted. Your time and options were running out. As much as you hated it, you needed help.

-Credence, I’ll write back very soon,- you said. -I have to ask someone for advice. Stay calm and keep your book close. Trust me.-

-hurry-

———————-

You rummaged through your personal stash of charmed jewelry, shaking out the box of trinkets until a considerable spread of metal had formed on your bed. You searched, finding a pendant and grabbing it wildly. You called out the activation charm, “Excitant!”

The pendant hovered in you palm, glowing blue. After a moment, the light shifted to a pink color and a soft, feminine voice echoed from the pendant.

‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

“Mom? Mom, I hear you,” you responded.

'Oh, good! This is a surprise. You haven’t called me over the little necklace in a long ti–’

“Mom, I have a question. I need answers fast,” you blurted. “Are you at the school now?”

'Of course,’ she replied. You hadn’t doubted it, really. She had been promoted to the head of the hospital wing at Ilvermorny last term. She couldn’t well afford to leave school grounds.

“I need someone who can identify a spell if I describe it to them,” you said. “I’ve been having terrible nightmares about it, but I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to stop it.”

'What sort of spell?’ your mother asked.

“It’s… it’s dark. Pitch black,” you explained. “It blacks out everything in my dream to the point that I don’t see anything. It feels cold and… it’s terrifying. I know it’s strong and… Mom, it’s already killed several No-Majs here. I have to stop it somehow.”

'Do you any other clues?’

“MACUSA hasn’t released much information at all,” you said. “Except, well… I don’t have time to explain how, but I know it’s coming from a child.”

'A child?’

“Yes, they are looking for a child.” You sighed. “I… maybe the nightmare isn’t even connected, but it’s just too coincidental that I’m having visions at the same time that they’re looking for–”

'It’s sounds more like an illness than a spell,’ she said suddenly.

“An illness?”

'Well, yes. It may sound crazy, but if it’s a child…’ Your mother was pondering her thought seriously. 'Have they considered an Obscurial?’

You were aghast for a moment. “Are you serious? Like in the stories you told us as kids? The fairy tails?”

'It’s not a story, you know,’ she scolded. 'It is incredibly rare, but what you’re describing fits. It hasn’t occurred much in modern times because we don’t have to hide our magic anymore but–’

“Hide?” you repeated, pieces clicking into place.

'Yes, in the past, young children who had to suppress themselves under duress would experience a backflow and an explosion of toxic magic. There aren’t many texts on the subject, but Obscurials are always very young children.’

“That’s…” Perfect, you thought. It was perfect. It absolutely fit. “Thank you. I’ve got to go. I’ll call again once I’ve got this all sorted.”

'Dear, please be careful,’ she said hurriedly. 'A raging Obscurus is very dangerous. If it is that… don’t get yourself caught in it.’

“Right. With any luck, we’ll get this under control before there’s another incident. Thanks again!” You tossed the pendant down with a quick “Finis!” to close the connection and scooped your book and quill back up.

-Credence- You didn’t wait for a response. You knew he’d be waiting. -How old are your sisters?-


	7. Chapter 7

It had started months ago, the nightly flashes of scratchy black blocking out your sight. These nightmares came at random in between prophecies of Credence–some that you acted to prevent and some that you eagerly awaited to come to fruition.

Considering new information, the possibility of an Obscurial being the culprit of the chaos welling up in the city, you recounted all the vague black nightmares. They were beginning to make more sense. If you were dreaming from the perspective of the child, it stood to reason that you were dreaming from within an Obscurus, blanketed by dark, swirling magic.

What you didn’t understand was why you’d dreamed in black so often. There had been around a dozen nightmares in the last three months, but only a handful of attacks reported. It meant that, unless the MACUSA had been hiding many more attacks, there were more incidents awaiting–or one very large one that you were simply dreaming about more than once. The way your vision was clouded in the nightmares made it hard to determine if you were seeing separate incidents or the same one over and over.

You felt uneasy. Multiple attacks would be disastrous for the magical community, but if you’d been seeing the same dream on repeat, that meant it held a dire consequence for you personally.

The last time a prophecy repeated several times you had been twelve years old. Your gift of Sight had previously been unknown to you and you thought little of the recurring dream–walking into an abandoned building, searching for something, rounding a corner and meeting a sickly green flash of light.

You only discovered the truth of your power after your father had been slain by an Unforgivable curse, exactly in the place you’d been dreaming of for weeks.

Now, you were trying desperately to remember details, anything that might stop a tragedy.

In response to your question, Credence had replied that none of Mary Lou’s children knew their exact ages, but that Chastity was probably in her later teenage years and Modesty was no older than nine. Modesty was the likely suspect, you’d told him, due to her age. He agreed to search around her room while Mary Lou was busy fending off the press. And, if he found any evidence, he would report it to Graves straight away.

You hoped that answers could be found, that the mass panic in the two communities could be brought down. But, you couldn’t shake the nausea creeping in your gut. While you waited for an update, you dressed and equipped several defense-enchanted accessories.

——————–

Credence entered Modesty’s room with a feeling of skepticism looming over him. Though you suspected his youngest sister, he honestly couldn’t imagine her as a witch. You’d said that young witches’ powers would manifest out of control but she had never showed the slightest inkling of magic–at least not in front of him.

He knew his sister had few personal belongings, knew that she kept a box hidden under her bed. A passerby on the street had gifted her candy once, another time she’d found a tarnished bracelet on the street. Small items were pocketed and placed in her secret box. Credence recalled the bracelet, wondering if maybe it could be charmed like the necklace Mr. Graves had given him, like the jewelry that you worked on.

He dropped to all fours, finding the box under her bed. Behind it was a stack of books that seemed out of place. He reached deep, shuffled the books aside and found–a wand. He grabbed up the wooden rod, plucking it out of its hiding place, feeling a swell of victory.

The wood seemed damaged, rough, and cracked, unlike the smoothly sanded surface of your wand. It also had no handle. It seemed an unlikely tool, but he supposed he had no real basis to make that claim. He turned to leave just as Modesty entered the room.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Seeing the wand in his hand, she gasped, “Give it back, Credence.”

“What is this?” he asked quietly.

“It’s just a toy,” she said, her eyes wide. She knew the consequence for having such an item would be severe.

“Listen, Modesty–”

“What is going on here?”

The siblings shuddered, knowing full well who was at the door and that she had seen the offensive object in Credence’s hands. Mary Lou’s face was blank and unforgiving, a face that Credence was quite familiar with. Not wanting to make things any worse, he handed over the wand, keeping his head low. Modesty said nothing, didn’t move, barely breathed.

They knew what was coming as Mary Lou exited the room, ordering them both out with her.

——————-

A good hour ticked by. You sat with your wrist visible, poised on the edge of the couch, ready to jump at the first word. Surely, you thought, it shouldn’t take that long to search one little girl’s room–unless something had gone wrong.

You snatched up you book and jotted down a quick message. -Is everything okay?-

Your page remained blank. Your stomach was flipping–Merlin dammit, why hadn’t you arranged a better method of communicating before sending him on the hunt? Of course, he could have also finished his task and contacted Graves. He and Modesty could very well be in the MACUSA building now, sorting out all the chaos.

Your mind reeled at all the possible ways things could have gone south, however, and you found yourself unable to sit still. Wand out, you decided a trip to the church was warranted. You’d arrive in a nearby alley, walk up, and just see if there were any signs of trouble.

—————-

Trouble didn’t even begin to describe what you found. The street was wild with noise, onlookers surrounding the church and pointing at the massive hole that had been ripped straight through the corner of the building. No-Maj police officers were barricading the area and keeping people at bay. Your heart raced as you readied your wand again, determined to get a better look. You apparated into the church, hoping you wouldn’t run into anyone inside.

You didn’t. Not anyone alive, at least.

You counted two bodies: Credence’s eldest sister and–you shuddered–his mother. But, neither Credence nor Modesty were anywhere to be seen, alive or otherwise. You couldn’t breath, feeling your chest clench in fear.

You apparated to the roof of a tall building nearby, scanning the area. You hoped that Graves had been called and that he had somehow deescalated the situation, but you had a sinking feeling that Modesty had escaped into the city somehow–and that Credence was out there trying to help track her down. You watched the skyline like a hawk. If any sign of the Obscurus appeared, you were ready to rush toward it.

——————–

Graves’ words cut to the bone. After everything that had been said and promised, Credence was figuratively–and literally–assaulted with the revelation that it had all been a lie. His face stung, the shock of betrayal amplifying the ache. He watched Graves rushing around in search of Modesty. The cruel words echoed hazily in his mind.

The last hour had been a blur. Ma and Modesty and the belt. Anger and pressure building in his chest. The feeling swelled painfully and then–

What? He couldn’t remember. He blacked out somehow and when he came to, his mother lay lifeless before him and Modesty was gone. He’d called Mr. Graves, told him where Modesty would have gone, and they had apparated to the place. Credence felt the sickness of the instantaneous travel more than ever, but Graves hadn’t wasted a precious second to dispel the nausea, as you had the first time he apparated.

Now, as Graves searched deeper in the house, calling Modesty’s name, Credence felt that familiar pressure building under his sternum again, threatening to burst out. A black haze was playing at the edge of his vision and the angrier he became, the darker the room turned.

Credence barely registered what was happening until he stared toward the sound of Graves’ voice and the walls between them just… crumbled. The force of his rage cleared a path straight through to where Graves was standing. The older wizard looked through the wreckage, his stare astounded and knowing.

And, then Credence knew. It was no child that had caused all the destruction. It was something in him, something dark and warped, something that was gnawing at his insides. The chewing sensation from within was becoming unbearable and then—

He let it go.


	8. Chapter 8

In the distance, amidst the twinkling lights and the revving of car engines, a monstrous black and red cloud erupted. You heard the echoing crack and the explosion of brick and mortar being ripped asunder. Though you’d never seen an Obscurus before, you could easily assume that it was the thing at the far edge of your vision. It was several miles away–and sweet Merlin, it was huge.

The sensible part of your brain screamed at you to stay clear of it, but the worried-sick part knew that Credence was somewhere near it. You had to get close, had to at least get him away and let the Aurors deal with the rest. You readied yourself and apparated close to where the Obscurus had spiraled into existence.

———————–

Drunk with rage, vision completely clouded over, he could no longer feel the fear lacing his veins, only the anger, the desire to chase Graves down. He trusted him, possibly the worst mistake of his life. He felt humiliated. The black monster bled into him, gaining momentum with every building it crashed into. He couldn’t hold it back, didn’t honestly want to.

He collided into walls, hooking into them and launching from them. The cobblestone streets kicked up under the pressure of the clawing monster, car overturned, and people were being trampled over.

He couldn’t comprehend any of it. The dizzying movement continued, and if he had any semblance of a body left it would have been experiencing intense motion sickness. He was vaguely aware of the police officers firing guns ineffectively at him. Still, the bit of him that was grasping at coherency knew that bullets were bad. He needed to avoid them. The massive waves of black and flashing red dipped down into the subway.

Quiet, it was quiet down there. No one followed him, at least for a short time. The hazy mist that he had become oozed over the train tracks and crept up the walls. He felt some solace, tried to regain some fraction of himself.

——————

You arrived at the epicenter, another destroyed building. You had bypassed the Obscurus but it was still rampaging a few blocks away. You pitied the girl, but you were currently much more worried about Credence. You could only imagine that he had been present at the time of the outburst and the thought that you’d find his lifeless body somewhere in the wreckage was sending you into a panic attack. You clutched your chest to steady yourself as you searched the building room-by-room.

You found nothing but rubble, cracked rafters, stairs that were crumbling and near-impossible to climb. You whispered Credence’s name as you mapped out the building. Up and up into the higher floors, you found a room that hadn’t been torn apart. You peeked in hoping to find a sign of life–please, just let him be safe somehow–

And you were met with a cowering, crying little girl.

She stared at you but said nothing. You recognized her. Your breath caught painfully in your throat and you couldn’t even gasp out a word. You backed away from her, shaking in the fear of your realization.

The Obscurial–not Modesty–not a child. You flew out of the room, stumbling down the stairs, into the lower floor and onto the street. The Obscurus was no longer raging, likely having gone into hiding or–worse–having been destroyed. You apparated frantically, nearly tripping in your panic and splinching yourself. Not Modesty–no, no, no–how could you be so stupid? Your mind whirled with memories of cuts and bruises and scars, dark eyes and features, shoulders tucked in tightly. Beaten, repressed, every drop of magic in his veins forced down and down until it had nowhere to go but out.

When you arrived at the scene, a team of Aurors had cast barriers at every entrance to the subway. There were No-Majs, wizards, and witches alike piling up at the edge of the veil-like wall.

In the subway, the Obscurus had retreated. You wept uncontrollably, trying to find a crack in the defense. You wouldn’t be able to apparate through the barrier. You knew. You knew as soon as you saw the scared little girl, hiding far away from the chaos.

Credence–he was down there. And, with all the destruction he’d caused now, the Aurors weren’t going to let him leave alive.

You vaguely realized you had torn through the crowd, had come face-to-face with the barrier. You tried a counterspell, only to have to shunt you back. Your eyes felt hot and your head throbbed with such force that it sent you to your knees.

You saw black. You heard shouting, but not from the crowd. You cried out, rejecting the scene that was playing in the glow behind your eyelids. You didn’t have premonitions while awake–you weren’t that kind of Seer. And yet–and yet–you saw a light that sliced through the darkness. You heard a choked, sobbing scream that torn your heart to shreds.

You redoubled your efforts, blindly casting every spells you could think of at the barrier, even as the scene in the subway was flashing over your vision. Nothing was working, you weren’t getting in, weren’t going to make it–

Credence–Credence–

You cried out and curled in on yourself as you saw him die.

———————-

Briefly, he could hear words, see a man in a blue coat. The man tried to talk him down, but then Graves appeared before him. When his wand came out and a whip of lightening lashed out at the man in blue, he felt the rage build up again. He burst out, ricocheting from wall to wall.

A struggle ensued between Graves and the man in blue and then… her. The witch he had seen once before. She told him to stop, and it jarred him enough that he settled. The black arms wavered, receding slightly. He could feel himself falling back into his body, regaining some portion of the mind back. And then–then–

Screams. The witch, calling out, “You’ll frighten him!” Light, white hot. Annoyance morphing to discomfort to pain to agony in an instant. Fear. Unable to move, unable to escape. Help. Help. He–

——–

The crowd was murmuring and the Aurors were slowly pulling back from their on-guard positions. Your body was convulsing in time with your sobs. From the station, you saw a team of Aurors leading a man out and you recognized him as the dark wizard that had been on the run for months–Grindelwald. The battle was over, obviously.

Your head no longer spun from the dizzying force of your prophecy. It had already come to pass. Tears were spilling silently down your cheeks and dripping from your chin. You couldn’t manage a hiccup of a sound or even a deep breath anymore. You felt cold.

Your head lolled back in defeat, wetness running back, over your cheekbones and pooling in the creases of your ears. The sky was clear, stars giving way to the sunrise. To anyone else in the magical community, this victory was phenomenal. But, to you–

Your Sight had failed you again, losing you someone important, terribly important, maybe even more so than you had realized. From the first moment you had dreamed of him specifically, you had wanted to meet him, wanted to save him–

You thought of the promise you’d made to live together after everything was over and it sent you into a whimpering fit. Eyes wide, staring up at the descending moon, you cursed Merlin, cursed the magic in you, cursed your damned Sight and its uselessness and–

You saw black again. Just a shard, like a thread floating on the wind. It rose up from the subway, faltered in the breeze and fluttered over the rooftops.

An Auror was walking up to you, asking if you were okay, but you didn’t hear him. You leaped to your feet, shoved past him, and apparated as close to the shard as possible.

———–

You nearly lost the damn fragment of the Obscurus countless times–nearly stepped clear off roofs and walked in front of moving vehicles just as many times. But you somehow kept close to it. Somehow followed it the the edge of a slum in town, to a maze of streets. It floated down, below the skyline.

———–

Credence burst forth from the sliver of black, naked and broken, and he landed hard on the frigid cold of the ground. The cobblestone was uneven and a puddle had formed–inconveniently right under where he fell. His head spun, wild and incoherent.

Who am I–where am I–what happened–it hurts–who, where, what, hurts–

A name resonated in his mind, your name. He didn’t recognize it at first, but the more he focused on it the warmer he felt–the safer he felt. A flash of a memory came to him, a gentle hand, a kind smile. His voice was completely foreign to him but it chanted your name like a prayer. He could almost recall what you looked like, but the harder thought about it, the more unstable his body felt. He knew–without really knowing, it was more of an instinct–that if he concentrated too hard on anything his body would burst into a pulsing heap of black again.

Recollection came to him slowly. You, Mr. Graves, betrayal, fear, death, you, Modesty, his own name, his power–God, what had he done?–you–where were you?

You didn’t keep him waiting long. You came for him, because of course you would, because of course Mr. Graves even managed that. But, Mr. Graves had come with a horrible purpose–stupid, stupid, how could he have been so stupid?–he’s not going to become a wizard, and he’s not going to go to the magical world, and it was all a lie–and what else had he been lied to about?–and his cool calm demeanor was exactly the opposite of what you brought along.

Credence could hear your arrival–that interesting whoosh and pop, like a vortex–somewhere close. He didn’t know how you even found him, but that hardly mattered now. Everything hurt and oozed blood and magic and he just wanted you to find him. Your heels pattered on the cobblestone in a rushed staccato and you called his name, your voice ragged. You had a habit now of searching for him in alleyways. When you arrived at the one he had fled to, relief flooded you, and you stumbled toward him.

He saw you and begged, “H-help me.”

Credence jolted, suddenly conflicted and afraid. He asked for help before and was punished. Punished, punished, you would punish him too. You neared him hand outstretched, and he stared up at you moon-eyed as though you were about to strike him.

You had no time to question the look and your hand didn’t reach him. The pressure that had been building up inside him surfaced–God, he had tried to keep it down, for fear that he would fly apart again–and wispy black tendrils spiraled like a cyclone, out and around your extended arm, lacerating your skin in a flurry of hot red. Your face immediately contorted into shock and Credence scrambled back, willing the black whips to retreat with him.

He looked wildly at your hand–your hand, no, no, no–blood, blood dripping from the fresh lines and–Ma, belt in hand, striking again and again, buckle catching on the ripped edges of his palms, blood and fear and sweat, crouching and drawing the aching hand in, squeezing and pinching and biting the edges and holding fingertips in his mouth, anything to make it stop, make it stop, make it–

He was at least partially returning to his senses. He fought with the instinct that you were there to punish him. He knew better. You had rushed to find him, and, now that you’d found him, you weren’t going to hurt him. At least, you wouldn’t have hurt him before he attacked you. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Now, he wanted the punishment, if only he could take back the pain he’d caused you.

You studied the wounds, not seeming to register what exactly had occurred, as though your arm was not a part of you. Honestly, it looked very much like a splinch wound. Credence trembled and wanted to rush forward to comfort you but stopped himself, terrified of what he might do to you next. He moaned, “I’m s-sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to!”

You could still hardly believe it. But here he was–an Obscurial. And sweet Merlin, the stories all said that they burned out at a young age–yet here Credence was, terrified and abused, but very much alive, an adult. So many questions filled your mind–how had he survived this whole time? What sort of reservoir of magic must he have to maintain an Obscurus for for so long?

When you came back to your senses, your arm felt numb and cold, though warm blood ran in rivulets down to your elbow, and Credence was murmuring the most heart-breaking apology.

“–so sorry. Y-your hand, your hand…”

You gave him a once over. It barely fazed you that his clothes had been destroyed in the attack, but you felt sick as you saw all the wounds on him. He was bleeding from every orifice, definitely the consequence of being ripped apart and pieced back together again. Dark bruises covered the entirety of him, and his limbs looked warped, fractured. His frame was shaking and black wisps of magic were rising from him like steam and you feared he might burst into a full Obscurus at any moment. The only thing keeping him from it now, you imagined, was simple weak inability to conjure that form again. Your eyes met his, not nearly as afraid as they should have been, and you whispered, “Sweetheart, it’s okay.”

What must he be feeling, seeing your hand laid open, as his had been so many times before? You were sure seeing the injury was doing the opposite of helping his mental state. You quickly cast a light over your injured arm, stitching the cuts closed with magic. You assured, “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have run up on you so fast.”

“It’s not okay…!” he wailed, his words punctuated by a broken hiccup. “I h..hurt you.” He recoiled, knowing what he had done, physically aching from the truth of it, maybe even more than from the pain of his injuries.

“You didn’t mean to,” you soothed, “and it was an easy fix.” You sat on your knees in front of him, holding up your newly healed arm, twirling it for good measure. “See… I’m okay. Really. So you can stop worry–”

“H-help me…”

His brain was screaming at him to run. The last person he’d said those words to had not tolerated his weakness–and his face still remembered the impact, throbbing with a phantom pain. But this was you, who’d befriended him seemingly without ulterior motive, who’d touched and hugged and kissed him without question whenever he needed it, who’d dreamed of him and kept him safe, who’d slept beside him and held him as though you wouldn’t abandon him. The black tendrils whirled nervously, connected to him somehow. Now that they were out, he had no idea how to put them back. And, what if you did come close? Would they attack you again?

“I’m s-scared…”

You didn’t move, didn’t speak for a moment, and tears were spilling down your cheeks. When you finally spoke, it was, “Can I come closer?” When he didn’t answer, you repeated, “Can I come closer? Is that okay?”

His magic hummed in tension, but he wanted you close–God, he just wanted this all to end and for you to scoop him up in your arms and for you both to go home–

“Y-yes.”

You crawled forward, keeping your head low–to look small and nonthreatening? His legs were splayed wide, knees bent, and you shuffled into the space between them. You asked, “Your nose is bleeding. Can I try to heal it?”

His everything was bleeding, actually, but you had a fleeting suspicion that he was shocky and unable to feel half the things wrong with him at the moment. You decided it best to draw attention to small things first.

His heart was breaking–why were you asking? You should know that you could heal him. But his magic seemed unsteady still. He took a deep breath and begged, “P-please.”

Your hand raised, every move deliberate and obvious. Your palm hovered up and up until it rested over his nose. His magic felt… prickly and distrusting, but it kept to itself. The swelling of his nose felt warm and began shrinking under the glow of your spell. Once you were finished, his magic slithered out. You stilled as the tendril probed at your wrist, circling and squeezing–gently. You made the slightest movement, your fingertips kissing his cheekbone, your palm cupping his jaw. He whimpered, somewhat in pleasure from the warm contact and somewhat from pain radiating from the entirety of his head. He leaned into your palm and, as though aligning with his emotions, the tendril caressed your hand and snaked round your arm.

“There, there,” you said, smiling. “See, sweetheart? You didn’t mean to hurt me. You would never hurt me on purpose.”

“N-never,” he agreed. “Never.” His magic–could he even think of it as that? Mr. Graves had said he had no magic–receded back into his arms and the pressure he had felt subsided. With its disappearance, the pain surfaced and he shuddered from the sudden force of it.

“Credence, what happened?” you asked quietly. You slowly brought out your wand, healing small areas of him at a time. The warm tingle of your magic was a welcome sensation and he didn’t protest your work. You could feel serious–though not life-threatening–injuries relaying through the stream of your magic, but you focused on little pains first.

“The child…” he said uneasily. “We thought it was Modesty.” He suddenly trembled again, remembering only now what had happened earlier. “She had a… a stick, a toy wand. I found it… Ma found me, thought it was… mine. She was going to punish me, but… but…” He was choking. “Modesty told the truth. Ma was going to punish her instead, and I… I…”

You could tell from the look on his face exactly what had happened. Anger, protect, lash out… gone. Dead, you were certainly dead, having faced the raw rage of an Obscurus. Before he could drown in the recollection, you held his face up, thumbing his cheekbone gently as your opposite hand continued to mend his pale skin. “What next?”

“Modesty got scared and ran off,” he said. “Scared… scared of me.”

“So you called Graves to help find her?” you insisted. “Did you still think it was her?”

“I didn’t know what I had done,” he cried. “I couldn’t remember it.”

“That’s fine,” you said.

“I brought him to find her,” he said. “I was… afraid. I think I could feel that thing inside me. I asked him for… h-help. He hit me, said I was useless, that he didn’t need me anymore.” Your heart ached for him. “No one needs me. I should have just-”

Both your hands came up to cup his face. You wand pressed between your palm and his cheek. “I need you,” you said sternly. “I need you to hold yourself together and I need you to recover and I need you with me.”

He was in awe of you, searching for any hint of a lie in your determined eyes. He found none.

“Did anyone know about me?”

He replied, “No, I haven’t told anyone about you.” You were his precious secret, the only light in his life. He had, selfishly perhaps, held onto that.

“That’s good, actually,” you said. “I don’t think anyone suspects that you got away, but if they do, we should still be safe at my apartment.”

Your hands dropped away from his face and you gave him a final once-over with your wand. You said, “That’s the superficial damage. There’s a lot left, deeper. I’ll need a lot of time, which we don’t have right now.”

You shuffled in your pockets and you dragged a small silver chain out. It was a thin bracelet and you clipped it around his wrist. “This is enchanted with a very powerful defensive charm. Your magic has a dark component to it and the light magic of the bracelet should keep it at bay, just for a moment so I can move us.” You readied your wand for apparation. Your apartment was a considerable distance away and you worried that you might have to make a few separate jumps.

“I will warn you,” you continued, “if your magic leaks out, the bracelet with likely sting you. Don’t be alarmed by it. That just means it’s keeping your magic locked inside.”

“For… how long?” Credence asked, suddenly worried at the intention of the bracelet.

“Only as long as the bracelet is on you,” you said, taking his hands in yours and rubbing his knuckles. “I’ll take it off as soon as we’re somewhere safe. We just need to be able to travel. If your magic comes out while I’m apparating, one or both of use could be seriously injured.”

Credence nodded at you silently, standing as you tugged him up. You readied your wand–and he readied his stomach for the sickness–and in a swirling flash, you evaporated up and into the sky.


	9. Chapter 9

You made it back in three sequential jumps. When you landed in your apartment, Credence was quick to stumble back, hand covering his mouth. He appeared to be silhouetted in a vibrating haze and you could tell from the pulsing of his bracelet that his Obscurus was being forcibly restrained. His muscles from his wrist up to his biceps tensed painfully–as promised the enchantment on the bracelet was giving him an uncomfortable string of feedback to keep his dark magic repressed.

You were quick to dispel his nausea and you took hold of his chained hand. “Credence, breathe. Take it slow.”

No longer nauseous, his hand fell from his mouth and shot to the bracelet. He wanted nothing more than to tear it off to stop the sting. You grabbed his wrist to stop him. “Sweetheart, you can’t–”

“You said you’d take it off!” he cried, fingers twitching. “Please, it hurts, please–!”

Part of you was glad your charmwork was so effective–he very likely would have shifted forms while you apparated, and that would have ended terribly. A larger part of you felt sick at the desperation in his voice–pain and fear and betrayal all at once. He was hunched, folding in on himself, and you gathered him into a hug.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Credence. If we take it off now, you’ll lose control of your magic. It isn’t safe.” You petted his hair, holding him snugly into the crook of your neck. He shakily wrapped his arms around you and you could feel every fiber of him convulsing. “Just breathe, try to calm down. We’ll remove it as soon as you calm down.”

A voice in the back of his mind accused you of lying–you had a shackle on him and you weren’t taking it off and you probably had some ulterior motive and–

He felt your nose pressing into his hair, nuzzling downward until you placed a kiss on his forehead. You were saying his name slowly and repeating, “Only a bit longer and I’ll remove it, just breathe, it’s going to be okay.”

He beat down the voice. Surely, you wouldn’t–he had to be able to trust you, wanted so badly for you to be genuine with him. He tried to think of something other than the burn radiating from the bracelet. Your hands were ghosting over his back–his very bare back. His face suddenly felt hot. He hadn’t had much of a chance to come to his senses after his escape. The chill on his skin had made him vaguely aware that he was unclothed, but now he was regaining full consciousness of his situation–the reality that he was stark naked in front of you.

Fortunately, embarrassment seemed a decent remedy for the predicament of his magic, even if it did usher in a whole new feeling of panic tugging at his gut. You felt him relaxing, muscles no longer singing out in pain. You pulled away from him, taking his wrist and setting to work unclasping the bracelet.

“Just stay calm,” you said. “I’m going to remove this. Just relax.” The chain fell away and Credence could swear he felt a sigh ripple through his core. You smiled straight at him–he was slouched low enough that he was at eye-level with you. “You okay? Is that better?”

“…ked…”

You leaned closer, unable to hear what he said. “What was that?”

He was staring at the floor but you could see the deep flush across his cheeks extending to his ears. “I-I’m… naked.”

“You’re…” Your lips pressed into a tight line and a blush flashed on your face, as well. You had been so worried for him in the alley that it hadn’t mattered, but now he was safe and you had time to breathe and you were standing so, so close. “Oh, that… that you are. Oh, goodness. Wait right here.”

You scurried away and up the ladder to your loft. It wasn’t as though you had never thought about his looks. His sharp brow and jawline were actually quite attractive, hideous bowl haircut aside, and when his eyes weren’t clouded with anxiety, they were warm, inquisitive, and inviting.

But, of course, admiring the features of his face was something entirely different than having the blindingly pale entirety of him in front of you. The time you had seen his back you’d been more focused on his scars than anything and in the alley you were so panicked over his extensive injuries that nothing else registered in your mind.

But since he had actually drawn attention to it, your eyes had taken a brief exploration to the prominence of his clavicle, the thin ghostly pale expanse of his chest, the faint line of dark hair at his bellybutton, and–

Stop that, you scolded yourself. It was no time for such thoughts and you knew it was wildly inappropriate.

You took a moment to collect yourself before dragging a blanket from your bed and shimmying back down. You draped the article over him and he pulled it round himself like a cloak.

“I don’t have anything that would even remotely fit you,” you offered, “so that will have to work for now.”

“I-it’s fine,” he said, doing his best to tuck his chin under the blanket. “Thank you.”

You motioned toward the couch. “You should probably sit down. You’re still hurting, I’m sure.”

He took a step forward and nearly collapsed. Standing still had made the pain tolerable but motion kicked it into full force again. His bones ached and he could feel a dull throb starting up on his head. He practically fell onto the couch, wincing as the cushion came up to meet him and sent a jolt of discomfort through his spine.

“Why is it like this?” he asked. “I thought you healed more than this.”

“I managed to close up the superficial wounds,” you said, returning to the loft to retrieve your communication pendant. You called down, “The Aurors, all those wizards and witches hit you with some nasty spells. It did a lot of damage, through and through.”

Credence cast a curious look up at you. “How do you know that? I didn’t think–I didn’t see you there.”

You returned, pendant in hand. “I wrote to you, when I thought you were taking too long confronting Modesty. When you didn’t respond, I came looking.” You sat beside him, a little surprised but unbelievably pleased when his hand peeked out of the blanket in search of yours. You laced your fingers between his and he seemed grounded by the gesture. “I saw Modesty, and I knew that it was you, that it had been you this whole time. Credence, you don’t know how sorry I am, that I didn’t see it sooner. I should have known–”

“I didn’t even know,” he said, dismissing the apology.

You squeezed his hand. “I tried to follow you, but they were blocking the entrances to the subway. I couldn’t get through and… I had a vision. I Saw what they did to you.”

“I thought your visions happened in your sleep.”

“I thought so, too.” You shrugged. “Maybe my magic is maturing.”

“So… what happened to me?” he asked quietly. “I wasn’t myself when it happened so it’s… foggy.”

“From what I could see, the Aurors, those wizards and witches, arrived with full intention to kill you. I think they nearly did. I saw their spells, the light, and then you burst apart. But, part of you survived in a fragment of your magic. I saw the fragment and followed it until I found you in the alley.” He was quiet and digested all the information you had given him. In your free hand, you worried your pendant under your thumb. “Credence, I’m afraid the damage dealt to you runs deep–stress fractures to your bones, internal bleeding, maybe something worse. Those sorts of injuries are far beyond the scope of my ability.”

He looked worried. “So, I’m going to die?”

“No, no,” you argued. “At least, not if I can help it. I just… I’m going to need help, a more experienced healer.” You held his hand firmly. “If I bring someone here, someone that I trust, will you trust them? Will you let them heal you?”

He stared down at you, absently noting the head’s difference in your height. He usually slouched in a way that evened your heights, but he had always secretly enjoyed knowing that you were smaller. He considered the possibility of someone new coming to heal him, another witch, he imagined. His trust in anyone was shaky at best, especially after Mr. Graves’ betrayal. It was still difficult to trust that you were being true to him, though he desperately hoped you weren’t going to turn on him, too.

But, pain lined his bones like poison, and he knew he wouldn’t last without help. He knew that you were his best chance at recovery and–dare he think of it?–freedom. There was also the desire, wriggling in the back of his mind, to stay together with you, live in the magical world, learn all about it… Of course, Graves had lied about his magic, so why did you keep referring to the demon inside of him as “his magic” when he had none? He assumed you were avoiding the topic, thinking of a way to gently tell him that his magic didn’t actually exist.

Either way, he knew his best hope at any kind of future was to trust you, trust… whoever you had in mind.

“If you think it’s safe,” he said, finally.

“It’s definitely safe,” you said, smiling. “Let me call her here and we’ll get you fixed up in no time!” You released his hand and left to couch. Walking into the kitchen, you held your pendant up.

“Excitant,” you said, activating the line of communication. Your mother answered quickly and said your name so loudly that you cast a barrier to soundproof the conversation–no need to make Credence nervous with shouting.

‘What on Earth is happening in New York?’ she shouted.

“Well, we were right and wrong,” you said simply. “It was an Obscurus, but it wasn’t actually a child, but an adult.”

'Not a child? How is that possible?’

“I have no idea, but–”

'And why was Grindelwald there?’ She wasn’t pausing to breathe at all. 'The papers are already coming out. No one is mentioning the Obscurus. They’re saying that Grindelwald caused it all. That they had to obliviate half the city while they made repairs. Why wouldn’t they say it was an Obscurus–’

“Well, for starters,” you snapped, “they thought they killed him.”

'Him? A boy?’

“No, a man. He’s grown, I told you.” You pinched your nose between your forefinger and thumb. “But that’s not–” She tried to cut you off, but you snapped. “Mom, it’s not important. I need–listen to me, I need help!” She became silent. “He’s here. I have him with me, and he’s hurt. I healed the scrapes and bruises, but there’s too much, I can’t–”

'You have him there? In your house?’

“Yes, and he’s in a lot of pain,” you said, you voice becoming something of an annoyed growl. “The Aurors hit him with all kinds of things–probably Patronuses or something–and it blew him to pieces. I think he’s got a lot of broken bones, but I just can’t tell.”

'It isn’t safe for you to have him there.’

“It’s the safest place for him. You don’t understand. What he’s been through, it’s–”

'If he was the cause of all that–dear, he killed a lot of people. It may be best to let someone else handle this–’

“I’m asking for your help. If you don’t want to, then don’t,” you snapped. “I’m not sending him back to the people that tried to kill him. Please, just help me. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Your mother was silent for a long time. She finally sighed and said, 'I’ll apparate straight to you, so don’t let anyone in your house.’

You exhaled sharply. “Thank you. Oh, and Mom? When you get here, don’t mention that you’re my mother.”

'Why not?’

“It’s a long story, but… just don’t okay?”

———————

You helped Credence stretch out on the couch while you waited, tucking pillows around him and bringing an extra blanket. His hand hung off the edge of the couch and you were gently tracing the faint scars on his palms.

“These look old,” you said absently.

“They are,” he replied. He was willing the pain to stop, his eyes closed. His lashes were thick and dark and they laid on his cheek like a fan. “Mr. Graves healed the newer cuts, but he left the scars alone.” Credence knew now that the act of healing him had just been a false kindness, only meant to draw him in–he had completely fallen for it.

“Would you like me to heal them?”

He chewed on the thought. “I… maybe not. You can heal any other scars, they don’t matter. But those…” He didn’t want to finish the thought, but he felt sure you understood what he was trying to say. “Am I strange?”

“You shouldn’t let your past define you,” you said simply, “but, this is a part of you. It’s what made you the way you are. If it’s something you want to keep as a reminder, as a thing to draw strength from… it’s not strange at all.” You drew his hand up and kissed his knuckles. “You are unbelievably strong, Credence. The scars are proof that you survived.”

He wept, but it was cleansing. He felt so tired and the cozy heat of the blankets was dulling the aches in his body. He drifted, lulled by the soft caress of your fingertips on his, and eventually slept.

————————–

He was vaguely aware of a new presence entering the apartment, someone small and quiet and not threatening enough to set off the monster inside him. Sleep formed a haze over his vision and as he awoke, he watched you lead the person–a short, mousy woman–closer to the couch. She spoke to you, her tone worried, but he couldn’t quite make out her words.

To whatever she had said, you replied, “Yes, but maybe just keep your distance. He’s a bit scattered from everything that’s happened. I know he’ll let me close, but someone new may frighten him.”

You knelt by him, taking his hand again. “Credence, you awake?”

“Mm'hm.” Even the motion of his breathing was painful.

“This is Ruth.” You purposefully avoided calling her “mother,” worrying that the word might trigger a terrible fear–“mother” to him likely meant pain and punishment. “Sweetheart, you hear me? She’s going to examine you, okay? So, we need to move these blankets a bit.”

He squeezed your hand, drunk from aching and exhaustion. He didn’t think he’d be able to wake up. “…warm, though.”

“I know, but she needs to have a look.” He shuddered when you reached for the blanket. “It’s okay, Credence, she’s a doctor.”

“A witch doctor?” The pun wasn’t lost on him, and he smiled slightly.

“Very funny,” you said quietly, tugging at the blanket.

He resisted weakly. “…’m still naked.”

“She’s seen it all before,” you said. “Don’t be fussy. I’ll leave if you don’t want me to see.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll turn around.”

“No,” he said more forcefully, attempting to sit up. You braced his shoulder, helping him up. The layers of blankets melted into a puddle at his hips and you gestured for your mother to come closer.

“Okay, then,” you said. “I’m right here, and Ruth is just going to take a look. Her wand’s going to come up, and it will feel warm.” It was as you said, and he shivered as the spell scanned over him.

“Oh, mercy,” your mother gasped. “You weren’t kidding about the broken bones.”

“Anything major to worry about?” you asked.

She took a moment to finish her initial exam, finding many, many small fractures, some bruising within, and a sharp depletion of magical energy. She tsked. “Nothing I can’t fix. I can sort most of it out in a jiff. The rest… well, it will just take time.” She flicked her wand, readying her spellwork. “This may feel a bit strange. Mending bone can feel a little… gritty.”

For the most part, it was bearable, but certain fractures were worse than others. When he felt pieces of bone shifting back into place, Credence grit his teeth and whimpered. You could see the outline of his arms faltering slightly, becoming hazy, and you worried his Obscurus might leap out. You climbed up onto the couch, shifting him slightly and coaxing him to lay back against you. You cradled him, one arm coming up to support his head and the other reaching forward to search for his hand. When he flinched with a particularly sharp repair, you spoke softly in his ear, trying to calm him.

It worked, better than even you expected, and your mother didn’t have the morbid pleasure of seeing his Obscurus through the entire procedure. Once she had finished, she pulled an assortment of tonics from her bag and lined them up on your kitchen table. You disentangled yourself from Credence, leaving him snoozing on the couch, and met her in the kitchen.

“The injuries are healed, but there will still be some residual pain from whatever spells were used on him,” she said, pointing to each bottle as she identified them. “This is for the pain, it’s numbing. This one is for headaches. Vertigo–he’ll probably feel that when he first wakes up. The rest of the mix will help restore his magical energy. He’s at a severe deficit.”

“He escaped through a shard of his Obscurus,” you explained. “The rest of it was destroyed.”

“It will regenerate,” she assured. “But it will be a slow process. He needs to take it easy for a while, drink his potions, eat some chocolate.” You laughed at that. “And dear?”

“Yeah?” you asked, yawning.

“We know barely anything about Obscurial’s but we do know the magic inside him is parasitic.” She was wringing her hands. “If it doesn’t have a fully capable host to power it, it may try to find a source of energy outside of him.” She regarded you with a stern look. “Whatever he is to you, I would avoid contact until he’s recovered. His Obscurus already had a taste of you, I’d hate to imagine what it might do if it gets desperate.”

“What d'you mean it’s 'had a taste’ of me?” you sputtered.

“Have you not looked at your arm?”

At the mention of it, you glanced down and saw–a silver-white scar etched into your hand. You gasped and tugged your sleeve up. The ripped lines spiraled around where the Obscurus had chewed into your skin. You shot your mother a worried look. “I didn’t even notice–Mom, you have to heal this.”

“I’m….afraid I can’t, dear.”

“What do you mean?” you said, keeping your voice down. “If he sees this–he’ll never forgive himself for hurting me.”

“It’s a scar caused by dark magic, like a curse or a werewolf bite,” she said sadly. “You know I can’t heal that, no one can.”

You mouth hung open for a moment but you snapped it closed. “I… understand. I’ll have to think of a way to tell him, then. That’s… it’ll be fine.” You stepped forward to hug her. “Thank you. For coming. For helping.”

“Of course, dear,” she said. “If you need me to stay–”

“No, it’s fine. We’ll manage. Lay low for a while. Though…” You rocked back on your heels and laughed. “Would you mind picking up some clothes for him?”

She gathered her bag. “Sure thing. I’ll package some things up and leave them at your door. If you need anything else, let me know.”

She looked haunted and you didn’t like it. “Mom, you okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” The lines on her face looked more numerous, somehow, and she seemed very tired. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t stop in to visit while you have him with you. It’s… difficult. His magic was trained on me that whole time, like it wanted to snap my neck. I don’t know how you can stand it, really.”

“It…” You didn’t know exactly how to explain, but you tried. “When it hurt me, it was because I scared him. But, once he calmed down, the Obscurus came out and it actually touched my arm, just touched it, like it was apologizing.” You could feel your throat tightening. “He’s been hurt by so many people for so long, but he’s actually very kind. If he can get his magic under control, if he can recover and find people who will protect him…”

“That’s a lot of 'ifs’,” she said. “Just take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, I will,” you said. “Thanks again for coming. I’ll see you out?”

“No, I’ll just apparate back. Stay safe, watch your dreams closely.”

“Always.”


	10. Chapter 10

He dreamed of hell, or at least the closest thing he could imagine hell to be. In his dream, it was nighttime and a crowd of people had gathered in the street around a huge mound of wood and kindling. Their voices were a low murmur. At the forefront of the crowd was his Ma and Chastity was at her usual post at her side. Somewhere in the throng of onlookers, he could here Modesty chanting out one of her dark songs about witches and she had recruited several other children to sing alongside her.

The details of the dream were so crisp that he wondered if he had actually died, if he was in hell for all the lives he had taken.

The dream-crowd erupted into cheering and his heart bottomed out into his stomach as he saw–you, being dragged forward. You were beaten, your face bloodied, lip split, and someone handed your wand over to Ma. She sneered, snapped the wand in half, and tossed it onto the pile.

“I will tear down your walls and demolish your defenses,” she said, reciting a verse. “I will put an end to all witchcraft, and there will be no more fortune-tellers.” She regarded the crowd. “This witch is but one who has lived among us, walking our streets, laughing at our ignorance–but no more.”

You didn’t look at him, didn’t call out, as you were tethered to a stake and hoisted toward the pile. Why hadn’t you run away? Why weren’t you fighting back?

His dream self was frozen, unable to move closer, unable to reach for you. He thought to unleash the monster inside him to knock people away, but he felt a burn from around his wrist. The bracelet–your bracelet–was there, keeping him at bay. He tried to unclasp it, but the chain would not come free–could not, he realized in horror. You had enchanted it in such a way that he couldn’t remove it without a counterspell.

“Have you any last words, witch?” Ma was staring up at the pyre. “After all the chaos you caused with that black monster of yours, have you any explanation?”

His head was spinning as you spat at her in response. Black monster–she was talking about the creature living inside him. But, you were standing accused for it, and you weren’t arguing–why?

He looked down at his wrist again, aware that with the bracelet in place the way it was, his monster wouldn’t come out again. You’d take his secret to the grave–and that was your intent–to protect him–to keep him safe from–

Fire flooded his vision. A chant of “burn the witch” rose from the crowd. The flames lapped at your feet and–

“–ence!”

–rising up your legs and creeping higher–

“Credence, wake up!”

–you screamed, cried, but still didn’t call out to him, didn’t betray him–

“Cre–”

His eyes flew open, but he saw only black.

———————–

You had awoken to him thrashing in his sleep, fighting a nightmare. Attempts to wake him proved fruitless and you began to worry as his form shifted to hazy black. In an instant, he was whimpering and thick black vines of magic were bursting from him, ripping through the couch and knocking cracks into the ceiling and floor.

“Credence, wake up!” You ducked as a tendril whisked over your shoulder and splintered the table across the room. “Cre–” His eyes snapped open, glassy white. His whole body was beginning to levitate off the couch, his Obscurus surrounding him. You sprang up, placed your hands on his shoulders and pressed him down. “Credence, snap out of it!”

As though a switch had been flipped, the Obscurus throbbed with a screech and exploded into ash. Credence’s eyes returned to their normal brown, full of fear and tears spilling. His eyes stabilized, searching for your face and he called out your name in a broken cry.

“Burning you–they were burning you! You took the blame for my monster and trapped it in me and they were–you were–!”

You wiped his sweat-soaked bangs from his face. “It was a nightmare. Everything is okay.”

“A nightmare…” he repeated, as though he didn’t believe it.

“Just a nightmare,” you assured. “Nobody’s burning anybody.” You sat on the edge of the couch. His whole frame shook and his hands came up on either side of you, beckoning you lower. You bent forward to rest your forehead against his shoulder.

His arms snaked around you, holding you tightly.

—————

He didn’t go back to sleep, but he did manage to calm down. Your curtains were drawn tightly, so he had no sense of time. He asked how long he’d been asleep and you replied, “Almost two days.”

“Two… days?” He was astounded. He looked around the room, feeling a pang of guilt at the shred-marks in your couch, the wreckage of the floor and ceiling. “I did all of this.” It wasn’t a question. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “I can fix it.” You reached under the couch and retrieved your wand. He silently wondered why it was under there to begin with. Upon further investigation, however, he noticed a pallet of blankets and pillows in the floor in front of the couch–you had been sleeping next to him, as close as possible. Wand up, you said, “Reparo!”

Instantly, the cracks in the ceiling melted together, the table snapped back into its proper shape and the tears in the couch cushions stitched themselves up. You smiled and stroked his cheek. “See? No harm done.”

However, his eyes were locked on your dominant hand as you placed your wand on the table–the hand which had reached to him in the alley. You were wearing a sleeved shirt, but where your hand peeked out from the end, he could see a network of silver lines that seemed to glimmer slightly. “What is that?”

You followed his line of sight and covered your scarred hand with your opposite one. “You’re observant.”

“What,” he repeated, his brows crinkling with worry, “is that?”

You inhaled deeply. “I don’t want you to be alarmed. And, no matter what, I don’t want you to be upset.” You rolled your sleeve up slowly, revealing the jagged tree of scars that coiled up your arm. “Sometimes magic is stubborn and the marks can’t be removed. It’s… these are scars from–”

“M-me,” he gasped. “I did that, in the alley? I thought you were able to heal it!”

“Like I said, some magic is stubborn. I healed the wound–and it doesn’t hurt, so don’t worry–but the scars are permanent.”

“Magic? But… no, I don’t–I don’t have magic!”

“What?” you sputtered. “Of course you do.”

“No, he said–Mr. Graves said…” Credence felt himself choking on the memory. “He said I don’t have magic, I never did. He called me… something.”

“Called you something?” you hummed.

“I think it must mean something nasty to witches,” Credence recalled. “He said I wouldn’t be able to learn magic. That I was born to a magical family but that I didn’t have magic.”

“He called you a squib?” you gasped incredulously.

“That’s it.”

You couldn’t hold back a haughty laugh. “Well, bully on him, the idiot.”

Credence glanced up at you, confused. “He said he could practically smell it on me.”

“Well, he was wrong,” you said bluntly.

“A-are you sure?” Credence said, his voice deflated. “I don’t… feel like I have magic, not like you do. You make it look so easy but so incredible–”

Your hands stroked his face and, despite his somber mood, it warmed him. “Sweetheart, I went to a magical school and was taught how to use it–seven years, and I’m still learning new things.”

“What if he was right, though? What if there’s just a… demon in me?”

His voice broke a bit at the end and you folded forward to gather him up in a hug. “Credence, I wish you knew how amazing you are. I’ve told you before that in my dreams you had an incredible power and after all this, I understand it. You are definitely a wizard.”

He leaned back from you–he hated to break contact, but he needed to talk now. “How do you know?”

“In the Wizarding world, we have names for all types of people,” you said. “Non-Magic people, or No-Majs, are the ones without any magic in their blood. Squibs are those who have family members who are wizards or witches, but they don’t have any magic themselves. Moving up to wizards and witches, we’re classified by how pure our magical bloodline is.

“Beyond that, we give people titles based on things they can do naturally. My prophetic dreams are unique, and because of them, I’m called a Seer. And, you”–you noticed his fingers fidgeting and you took one of is hands into yours–“you have a name, too.”

“What is it?” he whispered.

“You’re what’s called an Obscurial,” you said. “Your magic, those black vines that come out, that’s called an Obscurus.”

“Ob…scurus?”

“Right.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well… it’s hard to say,” you said. “You’re a very rare type of wizard, honestly. I barely know anything about Obscurials and most of the magical world is just as uninformed. There hasn’t been a documented Obscurial in America in… oh, something like 200 years. And even then, very little is know about them.”

“Why?” It was surreal and his head was spinning. He wished that you would hold his face again to ground him. Instead, he focused on your hand grasping his, though he felt a little sick as he thumbed over the raised lines on your palms–the scars he had caused.

“Well, not to scare you,” you said carefully, “but Obscurials aren’t supposed to live very long.” His eyes widened, and you clarified, “You can feel your magic, right? Like it’s trying to break out? Historically, Obscurials are children who, for whatever reasons, have to suppress their magic. Eventually, that magic builds and builds until it explodes out and the child is overtaken by it.”

“That’s… horrible!”

“It is,” you said, “ but I don’t think you have to worry.” Your free hand found his face and–oh, yes, that was better. He leaned into your palm. “You’ve managed to survive it. Not to upset you, but your Obscurus has been coming out and wrecking the city. And, it returns to you without harming you. That”–your eyes were fixated on him, mesmerized–“is incredible. Unheard of. You must have an enormous reservoir of magic to be able to withstand your Obscurus.”

He had no words, so you laughed slightly and said, “I was told stories as a child, but I really didn’t believe Obscurials existed. Honestly, this is… just unbelievable. And the magical community… Credence, everyone is going to be so amazed by you.”

“There’s nothing amazing about me,” he said sadly. “My… magic–it hurt you, marked you in a way that can’t be fixed. Why… why can’t it be fixed? You healed my scars. Why can’t your arm be healed too?”

“An Obscurus is a very dark sort of magic,” you said. “Not saying that you’re a dark wizard. There are plenty of spells that have a dark aspect to them that good wizards use. Anyway, because it’s a dark magic, it’s effects run deep, like a curse.” He didn’t like the word “curse” and you could tell. You tried to rephrase it. “And, by ‘curse’ I just mean it has a lasting effect, something that stays in place for a long time.”

“Am I evil?” he asked suddenly, his posture wilting.

“No, of course not,” you said. “That’s something that you have full control over. There are lots of very good, kind wizards who excel in the Dark Arts.”

“Do you?”

“Well, only certain spells,” you admitted. “Some of my charms come from a darker source, traps and attack charms, mostly, and I know some rudimentary spells. The Dark Arts are very complicated, though, and most wizards and witches aren’t strong enough to master them. But, you…” You tilted his head up, smiling. “I think you’ll be brilliant, even with difficult spells. It’s just going to take time for you to learn how to control your magic.”

His thumb worried your knuckles. “Will you teach me?”

“Of course,” you said. “You can start learning on my wand until we get you your own… somehow. Haven’t figured that one out yet.”

“Oh, you’ll have to buy one, won’t you?” He ducked his head down. “I can… find some way to repay you.” He honestly had no idea how he would manage it. His debt to you was compounding rapidly and kindness only went so far. He wondered if he’d be of some use to you once he learned how to use magic.

“No, no,” you said. “I don’t want you to worry about it. I’ve told you that I have money. Plenty of it. The bigger problem will be sneaking you in somewhere to find your wand.”

He glanced up at you from under his straight-cut bangs, his expression perplexed. You explained, “I can’t just go buy any wand and expect it to work for you. Your wand has to choose you.”

“Choose me?”

“Yeah.” You grabbed your wand up from the table and held it out in front of you. “When you go to pick out your wand, sometimes you’ll try out lots of them before the right one finds you.” You flicked your wrist, willing a ‘Lumos,’ and the tip of your wand glowed brightly. “When you try out wands the first time, you’re told to channel your magic through them. Your wand–the one that’s meant only for you–will cast something properly. Any other wands will give a slight backfire.”

You put out the light, flipped the wand midair and caught it by the end, and presented the handle to Credence. He eyed the braided leather grip, the silver button on the butt of it. His hand came up to it, but he shot you an uncertain glance.

“Try it,” you said. “It will backfire since it’s my wand, but it’ll give you an idea.”

His fingers slowly circled the handle, trembling slightly. You pushed his hand to the side, pointing the wand tip away from you. He regarded the wooden rod in awe, twisting it to get a better look at it. It was incredibly lightweight and the button of the end was polished to perfection. The body of the wand had a warped knob directly in the center, but the surface was sanded smooth.

“It’s made of flowering dogwood,” you said. “The core is Wampus cat hair. The, ah, defect in the middle is from a time I fell from a broom and snapped it.”

“A broom?” Credence asked, a hint of humor in his voice.

“Yes, a broom,” you said. “That I was flying on. You just don’t get much more witchcrafty than that, right?”

“No, probably not,” he said, still admiring the wand.

“Okay,” you began, “ you’ll want to aim it somewhere away from us. Think about your magic flowing from your core and into your arms. If you think about it as a color it’s a little easier. What color would you imagine?”

You half expected him to say 'black,’ but instead he said, “Red… I think.”

“Good, that’s fine.” You wondered if it had a connection to the glowing red accents of his Obscurus. “Imagine that your magic is a mass of red collected in your chest. Now, imagine it draining into your arm like water. It may help to close your eyes, or you may be fine with them open.” He kept them open. “Now, imagine if filling your hand and into your fingertips. Once it’s there, you’ll give the wand a flick and imagine the red spilling out the end of it.”

He followed the instruction, waving the wand. Nothing happened.

“It’s… not working, is it?”

“Give it another try. Don’t be nervous.” You placed your hands on his shoulders and rubbed a circle into his right shoulder blade. “Relax your arm a bit. You want your magic to come out easily. Don’t hold it in. Breathe.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He shook his arm a bit to dispel the tension. He tried again, flicking the wand, snapping a bit more from the wrist. The result was instantaneous and excessive. The apartment erupted in the sound of shattering glass–from vases, picture frames, windows–even the china in the kitchen exploded and spilled out of the cabinet in pieces.

Credence recoiled, dropping your wand onto the floor, and he clutched his hand to his chest, afraid of what it might do next. You could hear the gushing sound of a burst pipe in your bathroom and you vaulted over the back of the couch to investigate. Arriving at the door, you saw that every porcelain structure in the bathroom had been obliterated. You yelped as the burst pipes, no longer connected to the sink, toilet, or bath, sprayed wildly against the walls.

Your hand flew up and you shouted, “Accio!” to retrieve your wand. A quick 'Reparo’ made easy work of repairing the bathroom, along with a 'Scourgify’ to soak up the wet mess. As you came back into the living area, you flipped your wand back and forth, piecing together all the glass that had been broken.

When you returned to the couch, you were beaming with a huge smile. Credence, on the other hand, was curled in on himself, forehead to his knees and hands clasped behind his head. He was shuddering.

“Credence?” You knelt in front of him. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

He lifted his head, hands sliding down over his ears, but he couldn’t look you in the eyes. “…sorry. I’m sorry. That was awful.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked. You placed your hand on his knees and dipped your head low to look at him. “That was incredible!”

He stared at you, the fear in his eyes breaking your heart. “W-what?”

“I told you it would backfire,” you said. “That was a backfire–a spectacular one at that! You blew up the toilet! The toilet, Credence! It’s in a whole different room and you still reached it!”

He frowned deeply, utterly perplexed as to why you were so happy that he’d wrecked your home.

“I’m sorry, I’m not making sense,” you said. “When I first tried out wands, my backfire had a very short range, about five feet in front of me, and the effects were really weak. That’s how it is for most of us. But you–” You were positively glowing. “You reached through the whole apartment, all the way around you. And you weren’t even casting a proper spell. And with a wand that isn’t yours.”

“It… could go farther with a wand that chooses me,” he whispered, realizing what you were getting at.

“Oh, it could go much farther, much bigger and more powerful,” you practically squealed. “This is absolutely phenomenal!” You stood, feeling a surge of energy that made you want to pace.

Before you could wander off, his long fingers grasped at your sleeve and you stopped to look down at him. Feeling an uncharacteristic streak of confidence, he tugged you down into a tight hug, burying his face against your neck. He’d pulled you in such a way that you stumbled onto the couch into his lap, and you flushed when you realized you were actually straddling his thighs. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice the position you landed in, or at least he didn’t care about it.

His voice was shaky, and he sighed, “Thank you… thank you.”


	11. Chapter 11

Two days asleep had helped considerably, but Credence could still feel a dull ache humming over his skin. You left him to busy yourself in the kitchen and he stayed seated, bundled in blankets, and contemplated his actions. As he became more fully awake, several things plagued his mind.

First, and most obviously, he had forgotten his nudity and was mentally punishing himself for his vulgarity. He had hugged you, overstepping the self-imposed boundary he had placed–he could almost hear Ma screeching about close contact and sins of the flesh. You, however, had made no complaint about the embrace, gave him all the time he needed to savor the affection, and only untangled from him when he decided to end it. He supposed that men baring their chests wasn’t such a terrible offense and that the worst of him was hidden under blankets, but it still made him uneasy.

Second, and related to his state of undress, he was noticing several silver-lined scars on himself, much like that ones snaking up your arm–your arm that he mangled and marred permanently. They stood out unlike any of his belt-marks, almost glowing. He assumed that they were related somehow to the spells that had incapacitated him in the subway. Some cut vertically up the inside of his wrist and others carved into the otherwise smooth flesh of his stomach. He was filled with dread, thinking about what other vital points may be scarred–those witches had actually meant to kill him, bleed him, eviscerate him.

He gathered up an armful of blankets, hugging them tightly as he noticed his breath coming quicker. He really could have died–probably should have, if he was being honest–in the putrid underbelly of the city. Never to be seen again, never to be saved. You claimed that the magical community would be amazed by him, but he wondered if that awe would be that of an onlooker observing a caged, rabid animal.

But, he didn’t die. Instead, he had clawed his way out and you had sheltered him, likely putting yourself at great risk. He clutched the blanket to himself more tightly, burying his face and choking down a whine.

He was self-aware enough to know what he was, always had been–Ma didn’t even have to drill in into his brain. He was a monster born of the Devil’s seed, a parasite that would latch onto to the first offering of kindness and bleed it dry. Even now, he was exposed and filthy and sullying everything in your home.

Quite literally.

He’d wallowed in whatever muck had been on the street and a two-day coma filled with fever-dreams had left him soaked in sweat. He had no idea how you’d even stomached being near him. As he gave himself the best mental lashing he could muster, he didn’t hear you walk up behind him, didn’t realize you were close until your soft hand touched his shoulder.

He very nearly rocketed off the couch, startled by the contact, and stammered, “D-don’t, I’m dirty, don’t!”

You recoiled your hand, for his sake, and your heart hurt when he refused to look at you. Quietly, you said, “It’s fine.” You stepped around to the front of him, holding two vials of tonic. You held the first out to him. “Hey, drink this.”

He peered up at you from the squeezed-to-death pile of blankets. When he made no move to take the tonic, you explained, “It tastes like hell, but it has strong healing properties. You’re still sore, yeah?”

He barely nodded and reached a hand out tentatively. You passed the vial delicately. You handed him the second as well and warned, “But really, you’re going to want to hold your breath and drink it in one go. Then, immediately drink the second one.”

He regarded the dreaded first vial. The contents looked clear and harmless. If anything, the greenish tinge of color to the second tonic looked less appealing. He took a shaky breath and downed the first vial. The liquid barely met his tongue and he felt as though the breath had been knocked from him. The taste was so horrendous that his eyes watered. He forced himself to take the second tonic, though his body rejected that very idea of it. Though he feared the second mix would be the last of him, it slid down like honey and soothed the vileness of the first.

He gasped out a breath as his stomach settled, then coughed, then sputtered, “That… was horrible.”

You grinned at him. “Right?” You wandered off again, toward the bathroom. “Since you’re awake, I’m sure you’d like to wash off. I’ll get the shower running. It should only take a moment for the tonic to take effect, so when you feel well enough to stand…”

“Oh, that’s… You don’t have to,” he said. “I-I can–”

“You, ah, can’t actually,” you said sheepishly. “The faucets stick so they have to be coerced with a little magic.”

You disappeared into the bathroom and the sound of running water followed. Credence winced a little as he stretched his legs a bit. The ache was definitely waning, enough that he only half regretted drinking the putrid tonic. Slowly standing on shaky muscles, he gathered a blanket around himself and stalked over to the bathroom.

When he reached the door, you were pulling the shower curtain into place. You spun toward a cabinet on the far wall and took down a stack of huge fluffy towels with a wave of your hand. With the other hand you tested the temperature of the shower spray.

You rattled off a checklist. “Towels are there, water isn’t too hot… um… the blue bottle is shampoo, silver is conditioner. The white bottle with the pump is soap. Don’t use more than one pump or you’ll basically drown in bubbles. Oh, and this–” A washcloth hovered up from the stack of towels and fluttered into the shower. You smiled and slid out into the hall, ushering him in. “Have at it. The water will maintain its temperature, so take as long as you need. If you’d like it hotter or cooler, just shout at me, and… oh, just drop the blanket out the door and I’ll wash it.”

“Thank you,” he said, fidgeting awkwardly in the bathroom. “It’s… more than I deserve.”

“Nonsense,” you called back, leaving him to his privacy. You heard the blanket plop onto the floor and wordlessly waved it up to follow you. As you navigated through the house, you collected the other linens and set to work cleaning them.

—————–

The Barebone household had never entertained luxuries like showers or tubs with plumbing connected. A small tub with stove-heated water had been used at the church and the whole family had bathed in strict sequence–Mary Lou first, then the girls, then Credence. He was accustomed to water that had long since cooled when his turn came, so he made a habit of bathing quickly to stave off the chill as much as possible.

A shower with a perpetual stream of warm water–he couldn’t even imagine such a thing, honestly.

He tested the spray on his hand, goosebumps running up the length of his arm at the feel of it. Stepping into the steamy confines of the curtain instantly melted him. Days of grime ran in rivulets down his legs before he even began scrubbing. He took a moment to just stand under the warm water, shamefully panting at how nice it felt–this was euphoric and so wonderful it had to be a sin, somehow, someway, because what had he ever done in his life to deserve even something so pleasant?

Another frivolous expenditure that hadn’t been tolerated at the church was bath products. Soap was soap and it washed everything and if a complaint was made about it then it was taken away. When you listed off the various bottles and their contents, it had been overwhelming.

Credence took the washcloth and studied the pump bottle. One pump, you said, so that’s all he took. He didn’t even have to work a lather onto the cloth–it just magically did it on its own. He made quick work of scrubbing his entire self and rinsing. The soap left a silky feel to his skin, a stark contrast to the scummy film he was used to. The cloth still held a thick lather and he mused how long the bubbles would remain. He fully soaped up, rinsed, and repeated five times before his skin began to feel raw and he gave up wondering. Though, if he were being honest with himself, the overwashed sting of his skin felt cleansing, like maybe he’d be able to shed the weight of his old life.

The shampoo and conditioner combination had been an entirely different marvel. Smooth slick shampoo rid his hair of the filth and the thick cream conditioner gave the dark locks a texture unlike anything he’d ever felt on his head. He was actually excited at what it might feel like dry.

Once he was clean, he hesitated leaving. The water felt nice in a way he’d never felt before, like a gentle caress but everywhere. He sighed into the wall, leaning and relaxing, and allowed the stream to roll down his back.

He didn’t notice he had dozed off a bit until you knocked lightly on the door. He jolted as you inquired, “All right in there?”

He felt caught in the act–of what he had no idea. “F-fine! Done–I’m done, I’ll–!”

“No, no,” you argued. “Take as long as you like, I was just checking.”

He stumbled out, nearly slipping as he snatched up a towel. He frantically dried himself, draped the towel over as best he could and rushed to throw the door open. He was fully expecting an angry glare to greet him, but you had started to walk away. You turned, catching sight of his flustered state and gave him the softest look possible.

“Credence, it’s fine. It had just been a while so I didn’t know if an injury was acting up or…”

“N-no, I was just… I was…” His head assumed its lowered position and his shoulders hunched, as they usually did. “It was warm. I’ve never… We didn’t have a shower.”

Your lips curled into a grin and you twirled you hand, summoning a dry towel to your hands. You stepped up to him, draping the towel over his head and fluffing his dripping hair. His expression pinched in surprise before quickly relaxing into a pleased smile.

His eyes were closed, lashes dark and wet and his face was so peaceful, inviting. You couldn’t help yourself. You gently crept forward and placed a kiss on his brow. He shivered and almost lost hold of his towel as your lips hovered over the hollow of his eye. You didn’t move, waited for a sign from him, intending to back away quickly if he showed any hesitance.

His heart raced and his cheeks felt wonderfully hot, and not just from the heat of the shower. He realized with a shuddering intensity that there had been an emptiness carved out in his chest and proximity to you made that absence–of what?–shrink as warmth swelled inside him. He crumbled closer to you, pressing until your lips grazed his eyelid, your breath tickling his temple.

“Please,” he begged.

“Please…?” you echoed.

“I-I don’t know,” he said pitifully. “I don’t know.”

Your hand found one of his, leaving his other free to hold the towel up. You shied back, slowly, not wanting him to misunderstand your retreat as revulsion. Silently, you led him into the living area and showed him a neatly folded stack of clothes. “Put those on and come up to the loft, yeah?”

“O-okay.”

You moved away from him and slinked up the ladder, leaving him to dress himself. You had supplied a set of pajamas that were plain brown with deep red stripes. The material was incredibly soft and somehow you had guessed a good size for him. He fumbled to dress and scaled the ladder to reach you.

He had no idea what to expect from you, but you were simply sitting on your bed, surrounded by a nest of pillows and freshly laundered blankets. Your arms were outstretched when he reached the threshold of the loft. It was an unspoken ‘come here’ and he obeyed without question. You shifted blankets around as he crawled into bed and until they wrapped around the two of you. He pressed into your arms and you reclined into the masses of pillows comfortably.

“This okay?” you asked.

He was buzzing with sensory overload, drinking in warmth and contact and affection. He nodded.

“If I ever do anything that you aren’t comfortable with, I want you to tell me,” you said.

“You won’t,” he said a little too fast. “I want it, all of it.”

You nudged him back to look him in the eyes. “Even if you think that, you’re vulnerable and you aren’t used to this and togetherness is complicated and it’s a lot to take in. If you want it, that’s fine, but if you ever don’t, that’s fine, too. You’ve been denied your right to make your own choices for so long…” Cupping his jaw in your palm, your stare grew more serious. “I will never be angry if you say no to me. Ever.”

He was sure his jaw was slightly agape, struggling to process your words. The right to choice, the ability to say no… they were foreign concepts to him. Reluctant obedience, defeated compliance, and blind trust of any sign of softness had been the only way he’d ever known. But, the idea of freedom was so inviting.

“I understand,” he said. He rested against you, a thought gnawing at him. It was something that had been looming at the back of his mind, a question. It was so simple, but any form of questioning would traditionally be beaten out of him, so he’d never inquired it of anyone who had approached him. One simple question that he’d refused to ask the witch that had attack Ma for hitting him, Mr. Graves–and, oh, how he wished he would have asked–who had showed him the most horrible betrayal, the man in the blue coat in the subway who had spoken to him. Now, you… he swallowed his nerves and asked, “What do you want from me?”

“From you?” you asked. Then, with conviction, “Nothing. I want you to be safe.”

“But why me? Why…”

The silence was tangible. Then, you exhaled slowly. “I dreamed about you for so long, and I saw things. I… felt sorry for you, honestly. But, then I met you, again and again, and… I didn’t feel sorry for you anymore. I felt angry and protective and it’s selfish, but…”

“But?” he urged.

“I like you,” you said. “I don’t want anything from you, except for you to like me back. As a friend or as the person who’s teaching you magic or as… I don’t know. It’s… only if you want to, that’s why–if you’re uncomfortable, you have to–”

“I’ll say no,” he said. “If you just want me to like you, if you don’t want anything else–”

“I don’t, I won’t.”

“Then I’ll say no.” Clumsily, he added, “If I need to. But, I don’t think I will.”

You argued, “But if you need to–”

“I will.”

The silence that followed was only slightly less awkward and he hadn’t settled back in your embrace. Two breaths, three, and you asked, “Credence, what do you want… from me?”

He relaxed at that, wilting in your arms. “I don’t know. It’s… not nothing. It’s… something. I don’t even know how to ask for it.” Instead, he ducked his head, pressing his brow against your lips. He hoped you would understand and he counted his heartbeats as your processed his movement.

… 3… 4… 5

At six, your lips curved and ghosted over his skin. At seven, they touched softly. Then drifted and kissed the hollow of his eye. Lower, to his cheekbone. Your arms clasped higher on his shoulders. Lips lower, to his jaw. His arms found your waist, holding you tightly. Yes–you understood–you understood and it’s perfect and he felt the swelling in his chest building like it could burst any moment.

Lips to lips, soft and hesitant, waiting for him to say 'no.’

He doesn’t, nor does he want to. Warmth explodes from his sternum and vibrates outward. Lips timid and searching, he pressed toward you. Your arms were around his neck and one hand was wandering up and stroking his hair. He mimicked you, tracing long, scarred fingers up and holding the back of your head.

You deepened the kiss, tilting your head the smallest bit to fit your mouth to his. Lips parted–his or yours, you really weren’t sure whose first–and you planted small, breathy kisses, daring to nip his bottom lip a time or two. Wisps of black played at the edges of his arms, but if he noticed he didn’t mention it.

He was panting, fingers twitching in your hair and against your back. Panting and praying your name and begging 'please, please, just a little more, please.’ Your tongue slipped past and he absolutely crushed you with in an embrace, trying his best to reciprocate, to match your moves, to make you feel how he was feeling. His eyes were tightly closed, and you felt sure that he was unaware of the Obscurus seeping out, slithering and cradling your back. It felt warm and light, like steam, and you rocked into his mouth, saying nothing of his magic.

Eventually, the kisses became less frantic as he became acquainted with the sensation. He was leading as much as you, kissing lazily, nuzzling and ghosting his hands over you. His Obscurus vibrated around you, sending a tingling feeling over your skin. He finally settled, tucked under your chin, ear pressed close to hear your heartbeat. His magic receded comfortably, effortlessly. You stroked his hair, whispering praises to him, how grateful you were for his trust, how much you enjoyed it, how you didn’t ever want to let him go.


	12. Chapter 12

Again, he slept. Since the attack in the subway, he hadn’t felt quite right, like some large part of him was… just missing. The contact with you had been blissfully comforting. The longer the touch, the closer you were, the more he felt as though that missing part was being filled in. Something about the process was exhausting, however, and sleep had consumed him somewhere between all the kissing–and, oh, how nice that had been–and the gentle words you whispered in in his ear.

When he awoke, he found himself alone in your bed. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he felt considerably rested. A pleasant smell wafted up to the loft, one of food that he’d only smelled before as he passed a diner. Something savory, meaty–bacon?–did that mean it was morning? He honestly didn’t know what time of day it had been when he last woke. He tried to gauge how much time he may have lost to sleep.

He roused, stretching and cracking his shoulders. He moved to leave the bed and paused when he heard you talking.

“–won’t be easy to explain that. I’ll probably keep quiet about it for now.”

“That may be best.” The returned voice belonged to–oh, it was the woman that had healed him–Ruth. She was standing close to you, barely an arm’s length away. A faint hint of jealously swelled within him as he considered her proximity to you. “Anyway, I’m glad that everything has been going smoothly. Just try not to–oh. I should probably be going.”

“Already? But you just–”

You followed your mother’s gaze up to the loft and saw Credence looming, a little startled by her presence. His Obscurus was sitting just at the surface of his skin–you couldn’t yet see it, but the pressure it exerted was tangible.

Attempting to calm him, you called, “Morning, Credence!” You gestured to the kitchen. “Are you hungry? There’s breakfast.”

He shook his head slowly, his eyes darting from you to your mother. She edged toward the door. “It’s okay,” she assured. “I was just checking up, seeing if any more tonics were needed. There are plenty left, so I was just leaving.”

You rotated toward her, giving her an apologetic look. She smiled in a sad kind of understanding. You quietly said, “Thank you. I’ll contact you if we need anything.” You purposefully avoided hugging her, fearing it may upset Credence. You had established a comfortable contact with him, and in some way you wanted him to think of the physical affection as something only he received from you.

Thankfully, your mother kept her distance and saw herself out. You heard the pop of her Disapparition and turned back to Credence. He was already descending from the loft. You asked, “Okay? You didn’t have another nightmare?”

“No,” he said, approaching you.

“Good, are you–”

“Who is she?” he asked suddenly.

You held a hand out to him. He took it in his, standing close. With the contact established, his Obscurus settled somewhat, making the air less heavy. “She’s my mom.”

He stared at the door, considering your words. After a moment, he said, “I wondered. You have a resemblance, but your hair color is different.”

“My dad had the same hair color as me,” you said, feeling at ease at the calm tone of Credence’s voice. “I actually resemble him a lot more. At least, that’s what everyone’s told me.”

“You didn’t tell me who she was before,” he said.

You squeezed his hand. “After everything that happened, I didn’t want to risk frightening you. You needed immediate help, so I just thought the details could be sorted out later.”

“That’s… Thank you.” He imagined you were right, that he may have been upset if he knew the connection then. "She… left very quickly.“

"She can feel your magic,” you explained. “I don’t know if you noticed, but your Obscurus was pretty close to coming out.”

His eyes widened. “It was?”

“Yeah. You’re still recovering, so her being here must feel like a threat. When it’s coming out, it feels very heavy,” you said. “It makes the air thicker. And, well, she’s afraid of upsetting you, so she thought it best to leave.”

“Not of upsetting me,” he corrected. “She’s afraid of me.” The Obscurus was resting just below the surface again, weighing down the air around you. But, with only you present, it felt less hostile.

“She knows what your Obscurus is capable of,” you said simply.

“So do you. Are you afraid of me?” His eyes wavered in uncertainty.

“No,” you assured. A pulse of relief rippled through the air and you were quite sure the Obscurus was mirroring what he was feeling. “It feels different to me. Even now, I know it’s there. It’s almost like… Credence, what did you think when you saw her?”

He flushed slightly, and admitted, “She was standing too close to you.”

You hummed in realization. “I think you Obscurus may be protective of me, maybe of others you care about too. You said it came out when you thought Modesty was going to get hurt.”

“But it hurt you,” he argued.

“It was sorry,” you said. He took a shaky breath at the statement. “I could tell, you were–and it was–very upset that it injured me. It seems like your Obscurus has adapted to you and is in sync with you to a large degree.”

“How does it feel now?”

“Calm,” you said. “It was worried when Mom was here, but it’s better now.”

“It feels… fuller,” Credence said. “After that night, it felt… gray and empty. But now, it’s becoming darker and… more dense. Does that make sense?”

“Oh, that just means your magic is being replenished. You were drained of most of your magical energy after the attack. It will just take time.”

Time and love, you thought giddily. Love was, after all, an unbelievably strong magical force. You had noticed an instant change in Credence after all that kissing–tired circles disappearing from under his eyes, color returning to his face. You certainly weren’t going to tell him that, though. He might keel over from embarrassment if you started factoring love into the equation.

You smiled and tugged him toward the kitchen. “You should eat something. You slept for hours. You must be hungry.”

“Yes,” he admitted. Sure, he had denied his hunger when a stranger was present, but that was just another habit. Similarly to how he’d never been allowed to accept food from strangers, he had also been told to never eat in front of anyone but his family.

Family. They never had been much of one to him, he thought ruefully. Except, maybe Modesty. His heart clenched and he couldn’t hold back a question. “Do you know what happened to Modesty? After I lost control?”

“I do, actually,” you said. You gestured for him to sit at the table while you collected a plate of food for him. He protested slightly, but wasn’t feeling quite strong enough to see that fight through. He sat and waited. “I’ve had Mom tying up some loose ends the last few days so I wouldn’t have to leave. She’s the one that brought clothes for you.”

You had cooked eggs and bacon and you prepared a full plate. You placed it in front of Credence and he hesitated. “I’m getting myself a plate, too, so go ahead and eat.”

Normally, he would argue, but his mouth was watering with hunger. He at least held off until you began filling your plate before he dug into his eggs. He tried to pace himself, but you assured, “There plenty more, so eat all you like.”

You brought your plate back and took a seat in front of him. “Anyway,” you continued, “I had Mom go back to the church to find your enchanted book. The last thing we needed was for someone to find that and trace it back to me through my charm. When she got there, there were No-Maj police officers all over. She said they had a little girl with them.”

Credence swallowed loudly before he spoke–talking with food in your mouth was incredibly rude, after all, “Was it Modesty?”

“I’m assuming so. The description seemed right.”

“She’ll probably go to an orphanage again,” he said sadly.

“We can check up on her when you’re feeling better,” you said. “That is, if you want to.”

“She was so scared of me,” he murmured, his head shaking side to side. “I… would like to know if she’s okay, but I don’t think I should go.”

“I’ll go, then,” you assured. “I’ll give it a few days, wait for things to calm down more. The Magical Congress still has a pretty tight watch on all contact with No-Majs. We aren’t even supposed to be seen by them right now. Mom had to use an invisibility spell to sneak into the church.” He had emptied his entire plate. “Can you stomach another plate or want to let that settle?”

“Maybe… maybe in a minute.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. His stomach churned voraciously. Best not to overload it, he thought.

“Do you like coffee? Cocoa?” you asked. “I can make either.”

“Ah, either is… fine, I guess.”

“Which do you prefer?” He said nothing, looking lost. “Okay, sweet or not?”

“S-sweet.”

“Cocoa, then,” you said, leaping up to make his drink.


	13. Chapter 13

You dreamed in blue.

—————–

Credence wasn’t sure how many days had passed since the subway. Nor did he really care, if he was being honest.

He spent his days watching you–probably his all-time favorite pastime. You were completing charm orders, working overtime to finish your wait list. You promised that when everything was complete you would take him somewhere far away, out of New York, out of America, even. You mentioned that he would have difficulty learning magic in America, something about wand permits and people in the magical community recognizing him.

He watched you all those busy hours, amazed by the gentle movements of your hands as you worked. He even somewhat admired the shimmering silver scars that scrolled up your arm. You’d assured him it was okay and you weren’t angry at him, of course, and he finally, after much internal turmoil, believed you. Though, the fact that you kissed him to sleep every night helped your argument–he reasoned that if you were really holding a grudge, you wouldn’t insist on being so kind to him.

If he pushed aside the guilt over your scars, he could actually admit that they looked a bit like artwork playing over your skin–swirling and dainty like a spiderweb stretching up and over your elbow, glimmering silver white, the color of a clean pearl. He had, of course, always been trapped in the core of his Obscurus when it had come out fully, so he was curious as to what the full form of it looked like. He’d seen the misty black smoke, but smoke wouldn’t cause such an elaborate design. He wondered, shamed by his curiosity, if the full Obscurus had an intricate look similar to that of your scars.

Credence ate together with you, noticing how you subtly added spices to each consecutive meal, just a bit at a time. His stomach was grateful. Having only eaten bland and stale foods his entire life, he could only tolerate small amounts of spice at a time. He also noticed that you were keeping tabs on foods he liked and disliked. If he ate quickly or asked for a second helping, you tended to prepare similar foods the next time. If he wasn’t fond of something, he need only eat more slowly. He refused to outright complain or express any dissatisfaction, but you thankfully understood his vague cues and adjusted the menu to accommodate.

Between working and preparing meals, you encouraged Credence to read over textbooks–you had saved nearly every book from your school days. You offered him a variety of texts and told him to pick which ones seemed most interesting. He tried Charms but, as you had already assumed, he found the subject overly complicated. He drank down Magical History texts, however, and made a respectable attempt at understanding Transfiguration. When he came to uncommon words, he stumbled and mulled them over in his mind.

You would sometimes notice him hovering on a page for a long time. His brows would furrow in concentration. You’d quietly peek over and ask where he was on the page. He’d nearly always point out a lengthy string of Latin and would pass the book over to you.

The first time he’d had difficulty, he’d been mortified when you offered to read to him. Knowledge was power and Credence was actually very proud of his literacy. It was one of the few things his Ma had allowed him, likely hoping he would spread God’s message to the street children later on. It was also, no doubt, one of her greatest regrets–understanding of words led to questioning, which led to delinquency, which would have led to Ma losing her firm control had Credence been any less submissive. She most certainly understood her mistake and when Chastity and Modesty were brought into the church, she was more careful–neither of the girls were taught to read properly, only just enough to make signs and recognize a few verses.

Credence, however, would sneak books and newspapers, slowly building vocabulary. Latin was a different beast, though, and your textbooks were frustrating. Much as he hated to be read to like an illiterate child, he submitted to you, snugged in close to follow along as you read, and… He actually loved it.

Your voice lilted and trilled over specific words and strings of Latin flowed out like a song. He was enchanted by the sound so much that he lost his place on the page. But, then, your voice painted a lovely picture and he could vividly imagine magic springing forth from the words.

Now, he eagerly looked for complex passages, hesitated just long enough to catch your attention and handed the book over into your awaiting hands.

———-

Again, a dream in blue, and the pieces are coming together.

——————-

While his days were consumed with observation, filling his mind, and fueling his recovery, his nights were always something he awaited with nervous anticipation. He had gotten in the habit of eating dinner, reading while you bathed, bathing after you, and then finding his way up to the loft for bed. You always waited up until he finished–even if he decided to take a bath instead of a shower and that bath lasted for upwards of an hour.

He would climb into bed, and wait for you to come to him. He had yet to pluck up the courage to kiss you first. You had established that he was free to say ‘no’ but he wasn’t entirely sure how to offer the same to you. He feared that if he pushed toward you first, you might just concede because… well, you were very gentle with him. A 'no’ from you would honestly crush him and he knew it and he knew you knew it. Assertion from him would hardly be fair. So he waited and he never had to wait long.

He doubted he would ever tire of kissing you.

The first kiss had been sloppy and fast, but he was becoming proficient at kissing slow and deep and he marveled at the way you melted under his lips. Your hands wandered on his back, rubbing and holding, and you breathed heavily against him. He could feel you tensing and squirming and… if he focused too hard on how nice it felt, he had to force himself to stop, pulling away and feigning exhaustion. The longer you kissed, the more… stiff he became, and with it came that building feeling of his Obscurus. He wasn’t sure how the more vulgar parts of himself and his magic were connected but he feared that continued contact would result in a come-apart of monumental proportions and he felt quite sure that you’d never want to kiss him again if he burst into black ether around you.

You always whined when he pulled away, but he knew it was for the best. And you, ever the understanding one, would back down and allow him the roll away to cool off. You would curl into his back as he relaxed. When he’d finally go soft, he’d turn back to you, cuddle close and allow sleep to take him.

It was perfect and more than he could ask for and he never wanted it to end.

—————-

You dream in blue.

The light blue of the sky, the deep endless dark blue of the ocean. You smell salt and savor the air. You hear gulls and waves and the hum of an engine.

In your dream, you have purpose and you move through a crowd with determination. Your hand is being held tightly, nervously, and you look back to Credence, who is scanning the crowd with a worried look.

You dream-self studies a newspaper, makes note of the date. So you’ll know where to go–when to go.

Then, you look ahead, searching… searching… for what? For who?

For… a suitcase, a lanky stranger in a blue coat. He’s speaking with a dark-haired woman. She’s saying goodbye and he’s boarding a ship. His bright coat and curly mop of red hair disappear from view and you hold on to Credence tightly.

“Ready, then?” you dream-self asks.

He nods in response and you pull him behind a crate out of view. You focus… on the suitcase. The case, follow the case. Wand out, you take a breath and Disapparate.

—————-

You woke smiling, knowing. Credence was breathing evenly beside you and he protested sleepily when you fidgeted in bed. You knew what you Saw. It was soon and close and it was the beginning of something fantastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW, where will “IMYiaD” go from here? Well, it will jump on a boat and, presumably, into a suitcase. My ideal relationship involves polyamory and I feel like Credence would flourish if he was surrounded by love, so the future canon of “IMYiaD” will likely feature some “x Newt” pairing.  
> So, if polyamory sits uneasily with anyone, or you just don’t like the Crewt pairing, I’ll be sure to tag appropriately. 
> 
> Also, if anyone would like to get updates as soon as they're posted or if you'd be interested in REQUESTING headcanons/imagines, drabbles, and such, my requests are open on my tumblr!   
> http://greenmamba5.tumblr.com/


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